


in this expected country they know my name

by musicforswimming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, No Underage Sex, POV Multiple, PTSD, Past Abuse, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-12 22:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11746536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforswimming/pseuds/musicforswimming
Summary: At the wedding feast, Oberyn and Ellaria are approached by the Master of Whisperers, who begs they indulge him with a discussion of clothing — specifically, Lady Sansa Stark's. Very fine, they all agree...but what a shame, Ellaria tuts, she has lost an amethyst from her hairnet.So when Joffrey begins to cough, they follow her, and find her in the godswood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ha ha ha haaaaaaaa I haven't written fic in three and a half years, send help

**Oberyn**

After the breakfast that morning, Oberyn was nearly ready to insult the entire court by missing the dinner. "We have suffered enough, my love, don't you agree?" he said, the sweat drying on his skin. He and Ellaria had made good use of the time.

She laughed, and kissed his cheek, gave a mighty sigh, and finally pulled herself up from their bed. "I agree entirely, my sweet, but alas, that has little to do with how much more we must suffer." She ruffled his hair, and kissed the tip of his nose, but pulled away before he could catch her mouth with his. Ellaria was always playful after their lovemaking; where he was left enervated, generally ready for a pleasant slumber, she was bright and bubbly as a maiden.

"You're always so lively after. Really," he complained, refilling their wine glasses from the flagon beside his bed, sweating with the mellowness of the autumn afternoon, "it seems entirely unfair that I should have such a reputation for lustiness. Left to my own devices, I would go straight to sleep after our business was completed, but my lady is utterly insatiable, and it would hardly be chivalrous to leave her unfulfilled."

Ellaria snorted as she pulled on her shift, sitting back on the bed and turning to him to take the second glass he held out to her. "Yes, you poor creature," she said. "Thank the gods you have forced me from our bed, that we might do our duty in attending the feast."

"The _interminable_ feast," he corrected, sitting up. She had tilted her head to the side that she might comb her fingers through her hair, and he could not resist pressing a kiss against the nape of her neck. Ellaria turned and smiled at him, twined the fingers of her free hand with his, and then gave a sigh of her own and stood again, sipping her wine and calling for her maid.

 

They arrived before the main part of the throng, but of course they were not the _first_ to arrive. If they had been, his reputation would have been shot to all the hells. Hardly anyone noticed their entrance, apart from a cluster of the pretty little bride's pretty little cousins, who all giggled and murmured amongst themselves as much as was appropriate. Ellaria managed to turn up glasses of some very pleasant wine, and the two of them found a pleasant spot from which to watch, and be seen, without his Lady Sand seeming too offensive by her mere existence.

It was hard to miss the Imp and his lady wife when they arrived; each of them made mock of the other by their presence. That he should have such a wife, who in her loveliness embodied the Maiden herself, with a third of the continent to her name besides, seemed to make a jest of Tyrion Lannister, bookish and noseless, never mind his height; that she should have such a husband, stunted, scarred, twice her age, and half-drunk already, made a jest of Sansa Stark, who was fair and bright and should now only have started, as a dreamy girl, to even think of marriage. And yet each carried themselves with dignity.

At the very moment he was thinking this, someone said beside him, "She is a remarkable creature, is she not? Her bearing is so noble, even now."

He turned, and discovered that the Spider had joined them. "Indeed," he said; there was no danger in acknowledging something the entire court already knew.

"Lord Varys," Ellaria said with a little more warmth than Oberyn had managed. "Yes, though grief tells on the poor girl."

"Ah, of course," Varys clucked. "But even grief, she wears well; such a delicate creature she looks! In fact, it was the Lady Stark I wished to speak of with you. _Do_ forgive the presumption, but I should have felt a villain for neglecting to say anything. I dare say, my lady, that the colors the lady Stark wears this evening might suit you magnificently. To be sure, the two of you look very different...but you are at least alike in the fact of your beauty. Perhaps it is simply the fineness of the silver that strikes me. I think, though, that you might wear such a shade of violet as lines the lady's sleeves quite as well as she. Do you not agree, Prince Oberyn? Why, they should make a splendid pair together, even: imagine them side-by-side, the bright Dornish sun and the pale Northern moon, the differences between the two, and such stark differences — if you will excuse the pun," he said, with a little titter, "only serving to highlight both the other's beauty and her own."

"Are you quite sure you are a eunuch, Lord Varys?" Oberyn asked. "I think you might teach me a thing or two of the enjoyment of women, you speak with such passion."

"You are unkind to tease me so," Varys said, with theatrical sorrow. "Surely you will allow that even a eunuch cannot be entirely ignorant of the concepts of beauty — nor fail to be struck by the idea of two radiant beauties side-by-side."

"Why, ser," Ellaria said, "I almost think you are playing matchmaker." She was always better at feigning innocence than Oberyn.

"Indeed," Oberyn agreed, "had I not given my brother my word that I should cause no more trouble than necessary, I should ask if you wished to see about whisking her off to our chambers after the festivities came to a close. Or, indeed, perhaps before. We have so few redheads in Dorne, you know, Lord Varys."

"As to that, my lord prince," said Varys, with only the slightest change to his tone, "well. The little birds of King's Landing sing such _interesting_ songs. I shall not stoop to gossip as some others in the Keep might, with regard to the lady's marriage — "

 _By which, of course, he means to remind us of those very rumors._ Ellaria's hand tightened just enough in his own to tell him that she had thought the same. "Ah, yes," he said, exchanging a look with her, she frowning just enough for him to play the devil, "I have heard that the Imp has not yet found his way to the — the Throat, do you call it? You know, my lord, those wetlands that are the surest path to the North."

Anyone but himself and Varys, he thought, would be entirely fooled by Ellaria's shocked laughter. "My dear," she scolded him, with one more soft squeeze of his hand.

"The Neck, Prince Oberyn," Varys said, and then added, "though I should hardly call it the surest path. The Twins, after all."

"The Twins," Oberyn repeated, "yes, they are another path, but," he continued, just a little louder than before, perhaps just loud enough, now, that Sansa Stark might hear him, "I cannot imagine any man would wish to deal with the Freys, could he avoid it. No, were I to plan a journey northward, it would be the Neck, whatever routes these Lannisters might advise instead."

Ellaria pressed his hand again, and turned back from the look he'd barely noticed she had cast toward Sansa Stark. "My prince," she said, a little louder than her last scolding, but with laughter still dripping off the words like honey, so none might take any of this too seriously.

"I remarked only on geography," Oberyn said mildly, and nearly missed the gratified glimmer in the eunuch's eye as he gave a little sigh, as if in frustration with the high lords' jests.

"Geography, certainly, my lord prince, but we spoke of fashion originally, if I might impose enough as to beg you to remember," was all he said. "On which note...as I say, Lady Sand, Prince Oberyn — I think you might study the lady closely this evening. Such heavy fabrics would not do for the Dornish clime, of course, but the cut, perhaps in something lighter, would certainly suit. And, as I said, such a striking color, those sleeves! Well worth careful attention, I think, to truly get some sense of the effect."

"I admit, I am always glad for ideas of new finery suitable for my lady," Oberyn said, raising Ellaria's hand to his lips. She smiled, briefly, softly, and then her eyes flicked back toward the lady Sansa. "Well, my dear, and what do you think?"

"I think," she agreed, after a moment more, "that you have quite the eye, Lord Varys. Though  you're right that such heavy fabrics would not do in Dorne; I must watch the lady closely, so I might gain some sense of what to tell my dressmaker for the gown itself. I think she could capture the spirit of the thing, if I can give her enough detail."

"Precisely my thought," Varys agreed, and then added, regretfully, "but I have taken far too much of your time already, I suppose. I thank you for indulging my whimsy, but let us be frank: the humble spider has no place among such finery. My lady, Prince Oberyn." And then, having bowed his head graciously, he was gone, as if by sorcery. The most remarkable trick, that — a moment, and then there was only a whiff of perfume and oh, yes, there he was, suddenly just far enough away that you could not catch him without drawing attention to you both.

The message was clear enough: _something_ would happen this night, and Sansa Stark would be a part of it, a part which might be easily missed. "I suppose," he murmured to Ellaria, "we must watch the lady closely. How dreadful it will be, spending hours gazing at a beautiful young maiden."

"A terribly hard duty, that," Ellaria agreed, just as softly, but there was laughter in her voice.

"Why," he said, "and here I was going to complain of how the weather in this city makes everything more difficult. Such a damp night, is it not?"

She laughed more loudly at that, enough that the very maiden in question looked over at them. Poised and perfect she was, but the soft smile on her face did not reach her pretty blue-gray eyes. Oberyn could not help winking at her, hoping it might help that smile along, but she only looked startled, and turned away when Mace Tyrell's little mother tottered up to her.

After the Queen of Thorns was done with her, Ellaria drifted over like a petal on the breeze, tugging Oberyn after her. He made some jest to the Imp, who looked even more miserable than his wife, despite still having living family to his name (or, more likely, Oberyn reflected, because he still had living family to his name). For himself, Oberyn gave the lady only a passing smile and bow. She returned the smile — whatever Ellaria had said to her seemed to have softened, at least a little, those Valyrian steel eyes of hers, though they were still as sad and wise as the Crone's — and curtseyed prettily.

"You look near as lovely as the bride," Oberyn said, unable to resist trying to make her smile truly.

"You are very kind to say so, my prince," she said, but then her husband took her by the elbow and began to guide her inside.

"We are required, my lady," he said, his voice only a little thickened by drink. "Anyhow, I cannot be expected to think my wife safe with the Red Viper of Dorne or his lovely...what do they call female snakes?"

"Female snakes," Oberyn said drily.

"Ah, good, I was afraid there was some special word, and I had drunk too much and forgotten," Lord Tyrion said, casting a smile back over his shoulder, shortly before he was lost in the mass of people moving in.

"The poor dear," Ellaria tutted as they sat, but was interrupted by a servant who saw to their tragically empty wineglasses. After her first sip, she continued, "she has lost one of the amethysts from her hairnet, did you notice? I would have thought a Lannister's jeweler to — "

Startled, she broke off, for Oberyn had nearly choked on his wine.

 _And seven hells, I'll not be the last to choke tonight,_ he thought, as Ellaria clapped him on the back and he shook his head, already wheezing out a laugh before anyone could worry. _Amethysts. Gods,_ amethysts, _and one missing, and the master of whisperers notes the color of her gown, and bids the Red Viper of Dorne watch the lady closely._

It would not do to be uncertain, of course, and the next time he had a chance, as he leaned in to kiss his lady's cheek and whisper something filthy in her ear, he said instead, "What sort of amethysts? Dark? So dark they are black, except when they catch the light?"

They were black, from where he sat, but the lady had scarce moved throughout the feast. Perhaps they were onyx instead, only...

"Yes," Ellaria said, her hand drifting to his hair, one finger toying with a curl as he nuzzled her neck, the two of them just so wanton that some would avert their pious eyes, and not wanton enough that the rest would be eager to watch. "Black amethysts; perhaps they are only onyx, but her sleeves..."

"Yes," Oberyn agreed, and Ellaria kissed his cheek, in turn, and then his mouth, slow and gentle. They barely opened their lips for one another, and they sat with their foreheads resting against each other's for a long moment before turning back to the meal as the next course was served.

So it was that, when the idiot boy-king began, in the midst of goading his uncle, to cough, Oberyn Martell's and Ellaria Sand's might have been the only eyes that were not on Joffrey or the Imp, but on the latter's lady wife. He squeezed Ellaria's hand, and she squeezed his in return, and as the crowd began to grow louder, laughing as if the entire thing were part of the planned japery, they were able to rise and make their way through the hall, as if needing to find the privy, or perhaps steal a bit of time alone together.

But the king continued to cough. Oberyn and Ellaria did not need to look, they knew what it was that would have the crowd beginning to quiet, to murmur, even as many kept laughing.

The king continued to cough, and Oberyn kept watching Sansa Stark.

She slipped away nearly as quickly as Varys had, as the King's coughing grew quieter, to be replaced by a thin, desperate wheeze of breath. Fortunately, having been warned to pay special attention to the lady's gown, he caught a glimpse of cream, a flash of violet, a gleam of "amethysts", and was able to follow. That made all the difference, as, behind them, the laughter in the Great Hall began to turn to gasps, then to screams. The commotion of hundreds fleeing was a little muted for them by that time, as they followed the lady.

* * *

**Sansa**

Sansa had managed her dress on her own, though it took time, but what stopped her was her hairnet. It had come off easily enough, but she noticed the missing stone, and then...

 _He said there was magic in them,_ she remembered suddenly. _Magic and home._ That was stupid, that had just been some drunkard's fancy. If they meant home — she could sell the stones, he had said they were precious. The silver and the stones would pay their passage, that was all he meant. Even if one was missing, there were a score of others; those would get her far enough.

But she stood frozen, nonetheless, staring at the empty place where the stone should have been.

When she heard footsteps, she was glad for them, glad for something to stop the thoughts that were beginning to take shape in her mind like swelling storm clouds. She was about to call out when she realized that it wasn't Ser Dontos who approached. The steps were too light, too certain, for the poor drunken fool, and she realized suddenly that there was more than one set, that more than one person was walking, soft and quick and steady, towards her.

She was glad she hadn't called out, but that lasted only a moment longer, for even as she was casting about desperately for someplace she might conceal herself, someone called out to _her_. "Lady Sansa?"

She knew the voice, but she could not quite place it — until he came into view, and the striking dark woman close behind him. When she recognized them, she gasped. "You?" she blurted out, before remembering herself. _Why would it be him, you stupid girl, what would_ he _care for helping you go home? Gods, if they should be here when Dontos arrives, if he should_ say _something..._ "I beg your pardon, Prince Oberyn, Lady Sand," she said, dipping into a curtsey and hoping the light was dim enough that they could not see her fear.

"Not at all, Lady Stark," he said lightly, but when she chanced a look up, there was something strange in his face, it seemed to her. _He knows._ But that was stupid, too. There had been others fleeing the Great Hall, too, and anyway, what could he know? She was only missing a stone from her hairnet, that was all. _Just be quiet, they will pass by and go back to..._

She remembered, then, that the Dornish had settled outside of the Red Keep. There was no reason for them to be in the gardens.

"What he means," the woman said, in her warm voice, "is that the fault is ours, my lady. We took you unawares, which was most unkindly done."

"Oh," was all she managed. They did not pass her by, they only stood and _looked_ at her, and oh, _where_ was Dontos?

"You have changed your clothes, my lady," said the prince. "A shame; your gown suited you. My lady and I thought we might like to see it more closely."

He reached for her, and she thought of all the awful things Joffrey had said about the Dornish, the stories she had heard about Prince Oberyn's appetites — but surely with his lady there, he could not want — except no, the _two_ of them might — but a little part of her was relieved by that thought; if all they wanted was a few kisses — or even more — that would still be less terrible than if he _knew_ , wouldn't it? He was to sit on the Council; if he knew, if he _guessed_...

Ser Ilyn no longer had Ice at the wedding breakfast, she remembered, but she could not decide if that would be better or worse.

But he did not seize her, or cry for the guards, or embrace her cruelly. He only took the hairnet from her hands, and gazed at it. Sansa felt as if she might fly to pieces at any moment, and she clasped her hands in front of her to stop them shaking.

If he meant to — to do something to her, if he meant to _have_ her, a part of her wished that he would just get it over with. It could not be more terrible than the beatings. And they said that septas and great ladies and whores alike had thrown themselves at him, so perhaps he would even see that she enjoyed it, or — or at least use some strange potion to make her _think_ she enjoyed it, or even just to make her sleep through it, anyway.

Even if he did not, well, he did not have so very long before the guards would find them, so he must needs be quick about it. And once it was over and he left her here, Dontos would find her, and he could deliver her home, as he had promised. She already had so much to weep for when she was safe within Winterfell's walls. Knowing that she _would_ reach a place of safety, it was easier to think of adding one more thing to the list. _And just think how the Lannisters would rage, if I finally got with child and it was Oberyn Martell's bastard,_ she thought, half-hysterical.

But he did not throw her down and ravish her. He did not do much of anything.

"You have lost an amethyst," was all Prince Oberyn said, and when he looked up from it, the strange thing she thought she had seen in his eyes was still there. It was as if he were waiting for something, expecting something from her, but...

 _It's vengeance for your father_ , she remembered, suddenly. Dontos had said it, when he gave her the hairnet, and the stormy thoughts that the Prince and his lady had interrupted all loomed above her again.

"No," she whispered, staring at it. _If only all he had meant to do was to kiss me, or — or even worse, I could have borne that — gods, he's going to raise the hue and cry, or he's going to rape me and_ then _raise the hue and cry, and then Ser Ilyn —_

Joff had a new Valyrian sword as a wedding present from his father that morning, and Ser Ilyn's sword had been plain old steel. It wouldn't even be Ice, that might have been better, _at least the last thing I'd feel would be from home_ —

Her knees had turned to jelly, and she did not realize that she was falling until Lady Sand caught her by the elbow. "My prince, you're frightening her," she murmured, an arm going 'round her shoulders. Her touch was gentle and her hands were warm, as warm and gentle as her lady mother's — no, no, there was something else to her, a strength as well. Her lady mother had been strong, but this was a different strength. Different and yet also familiar, she could almost place it...

"Of course. Yes. My lady," he went on, in the strangest gentle tone, looking at Sansa with those dark eyes, "I imagine you need to recover yourself, and I would that we might linger long enough, but I do not trust that we have the time. Once you are safely situated in my household outside the Keep, we shall try to make sense of this, but in the meantime..."

The bells were ringing all over the city, as they had done for King Robert. Sansa looked once more around the godswood for some sign of Ser Dontos, but there was none, there was only Prince Oberyn, offering to take her out of the Keep. But he was a snake, he was _the_ snake, he was the Viper, and —

She remembered, suddenly, something her lord father had spoken of only rarely, obliquely, and how sad and tired he would sound when he did speak of it. He and the old king, the sad old drunken king, had quarreled, her lady mother had told her one day.

Sansa had begged to go south, again and again and yet again. The Warden of the North should go to court at least once, shouldn't he? And it was meet that he should take his eldest son and daughter when he did, wasn't it? He wouldn't be ashamed of her, she promised, he _wouldn't_ , she would be ever so careful, she was a good girl, just like Robb was a good boy.

They should go south someday, Mother had explained gently, at last, when Sansa was just eleven and Mother had told them that King Robert and half his court were coming to Winterfell. She had told them all about that one morning, but then she asked Robb and Sansa to come with her to her own solar, and break their fast with her, privately.

They should, and of a certainty would, go south someday, Mother explained. Sansa and Robb for certain, at least to visit court, and on the way there or on the way back they would visit Riverrun, to see their mother's home and meet their grandfather and uncle, and perhaps even the Eyrie, where their lord father and King Robert himself had been fostered, and they would meet their aunt and their little cousin Robert, who had returned there after Lord Arryn's death. And probably Bran would be some knight's squire someday, him or Rickon, and Arya...

"Will Arya be a squire too? She'll like that," Robb had said, grinning.

Mother sighed, but the lines at the corners of her eyes grew a little deeper, and her eyes seemed bluer, and they knew that, inside at least, she was smiling. Sansa and Robb looked at each other and then quickly looked away, trying to be as grown-up as Mother and hide their own grins, too.

Smiling at last, at the sight of the both of them, Mother had continued. Well, she said, many little girls were even wilder than Arya, if they could imagine such a thing, but mostly they grew out of such wildness, and even if she didn't, they were queer about things in Dorne, and the heir to Starfall was about Arya's age, and the Daynes especially liked Father, for the sake of certain persons, certain memories...here her eyes grew a little less happy.

"Oh," Mother had said after a moment, sighing and sipping from her own cup, then, with the most beautiful grown-up little twinkle in her eye again, adding a dash of wine to Sansa and Robb's cups of water (no more than a thimbleful for each of them, really, but it had served to make Sansa feel quite grown-up, and even though he rolled his eyes at her, she saw how Robb sat up a little straighter as well), "but listen to me. You two are so grown-up already, I almost forget myself. Ironically, when I forget myself, I become almost a girl again. Perhaps we are all meeting in the middle, hm?"

It almost made Sansa blush, to remember how easily she had believed her, except that Mother must have known how much she wanted to believe her, and Robb too, and said it all for their sakes. _She was trying to make us feel better, to make us understand that this was something grown-up she trusted us with._ Knowing, now, all that she had explained, she realized too that Mother had been trying to strengthen them, to help them feel safe for what she was about to say.

Yes, Robb and Sansa and one or more of the others would go south sometime, Mother began again. But perhaps not to King's Landing, at least at first. And they _must not_ tell this story to Arya or their little brothers. It was for Mother to tell them such things, to help them understand. "You, especially, my sweetling," she said to Sansa. "And Arya too, when I tell her, but this is why I must tell her. You must understand that what happened was...if you ever fear anything like it from any man..."

She looked then from Sansa, whose hand she was holding, to Robb. "It is terrible, and I would never have either of you know such awful things can happen in the world. The truth is a sword, it seems to me. When her children are still very young, it is a mother's place to shield them from it. But as they grow older, she does better by them to arm them with it instead."

So it was that Sansa and Robb came to learn the full story of what happened fifteen years before. Her lord father and King Robert had been the best of friends — they had grown up together, they had been like brothers; they would have _been_ brothers except for Rhaegar Targaryen stealing away their aunt Lyanna. That should have brought them all the closer together, and it had, mother said, in some ways — they had gone to war together, after all, when Jon Arryn refused to hand over their heads. But at the end, after it was already done, and Rhaegar was dead, then they had parted over what had befallen the Princess Elia and her children. Her lord father could not forgive it.

"Forgive what?" Sansa asked. Robb had her hand held up in his big strong one now, as if to give her strength, but his eyes were huge and bright, and she knew, somehow, that it would be easier for him if she said it. It was something terrible, certainly, that was why he held her hand, but it was more all right for her to be less patient; even if she was almost a lady, she was still littler, and a girl besides.

Mother closed her eyes, and sighed, and then took each of their free hands in one of her own. Gently, softly, quietly, she explained to them what Tywin Lannister's men had done to Princess Elia, and to her babes.

A gentle summer snow had been falling; she could still see the flakes whirling like dancers across the glass of Mother's window as Oberyn Martell met her gaze with his own.

"You hate the Lannisters," she whispered, nearly delirious with mingled terror and hope.

"I do." His dark eyes flashed. The smile he gave did not reach his eyes, and it would have been frightening — it _should_ have been frightening — except that she also knew it from deep in her own heart, a secret place she never let herself remember was there, because she could not risk anyone in the Keep seeing it. But there was some of that strange gentleness in those eyes too, she thought, that fierce gentleness that she had recognized in the Lady Sand's touch, though she still could not place it. "I do," he said again. "I despise them. Lady Stark, if you will place your trust in me now, I swear, by the old gods and the new, that so long as I draw breath they shall not take you unwilling from my protection."

He understood, somehow. He _knew_ what she feared. And he had called her Lady Stark. No one had ever called her that; her mother had been Lady Stark and when she died Sansa was already wed, but no one called her Lady Lannister, either, and that had been a tiny mercy. She was only Sansa, or sometimes Lady Sansa, though whoever called her that usually did so as mockery. _I am the Lady of Winterfell, though, the Lady Stark, I am, I_ am _..._

Her hand was shaking still as she placed it in his, and though, as he said, they did not have long, he lingered to place his other hand over it. He did not grip it hard, just enough to help the shaking stop. "Here," he said, kneeling to retrieve, with his free hand, the cloak she had dropped.

Lady Sand took it from him before Sansa could, though, and draped it around her shoulders, embracing her briefly while the prince was still holding her hand.

"My ladies?" he asked, and his smile was a little gentler now.

 _Ladies._ That was it, she realized dimly, as they guided her through the shadows, past the guards. The way they spoke to her, the way they touched her, warm and gentle and fiercely protective. They were strange and wild and somehow she felt safer with them than she had since...since before Baelor's sept, since before King Robert died, since the Neck.

 _Lady would have loved them,_ that was why she had gone with them. She could almost see her now, padding alongside them, licking the Lady Sand's hand and nipping at the prince's. She used to wrestle with the others, not as often as they did with each other, but she usually won when she did join in, even though she was the smallest of the litter. _She would let Lady Sand help me brush her fur, and she would wrestle with Prince Oberyn, and nip at him, and he would laugh and she would bark and wag her tail._ The thought made her smile, and when she tried to bite it back, to look as somber and frightened as she ought, she remembered, once more, _Joffrey's dead._

 _Lady,_ she thought, as they walked right out of the Keep, no one in the crowd even glancing at her. She felt as if, should she look to the side, she would see her wolf trotting politely next to them, pretty and soft and ready to kill any man who tried to stay them. _Lady, they have set us free._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two was going to be longer, but I think the next bit actually works better with chapter three, by which I mean it's now about as long as chapter two and still going, and is well on the way to becoming its own chapter, even though I thought it was part of chapter two and chapter two was mostly done except for a bit of fine-tuning, looooool what is even happening???
> 
> ALSO: I am still working through the comments on chapter 1, because I've gotten more in the past few days than I'm used to getting in a year. But in the meantime thank you all so friggin' much! As I mentioned, I haven't posted fic in years. Then a couple of months ago [branwyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn) and I got to talking because she'd started watching the show & reading the books (which I'd been trying for months to get people I know to do so I could yell about my feelings with someone, to no avail), and it turns out we both had SO MANY SANSA AND MARTELL FEELINGS. And then we got to talking and this was the first fic that came into my head, which I mentioned but wrote off as way too complicated an AU for me to handle, and she convinced me that it might not be as complicated as I was thinking, and here we are. Anyway, if you like the little I've done so far, you should definitely go read her fic, because she's a better writer than I am AND a faster one, which doesn't seem fair.

**Oberyn**

The Imp had established them in a cornerfort of the Red Keep, but it had not been enough for all his party. They had removed themselves to some houses about halfway between the Keep and the Iron Gate, he and Ellaria taking up residence in a manse at the center of the lot, built around a passably pretty garden.

The Lannisters, he was told, hardly knew what to make of this, and found themselves in a state of offended relief: it was harder for any Dornishmen to tangle with the roses strewn about the palace, which was a relief, but of course it was a snub, as well, and one more reminder of the debt they had yet to pay. Their consternation helped him feel less foolish for the decision — the size, of course, _had_ been a concern, but the truth was, he had not slept well until his first night in their manse. What sleep he managed to find was plagued by old dreams, and even as he cursed himself for a fool, Ellaria had told him she'd had quite enough of his stubbornness, and far too much of such the crowded Keep besides.

He sketched all of this out on the walk from the godswood outside of the Keep, idly, mostly to be saying something. "But perhaps," he told the ladies, as he helped them both into the litter, "the gods had something further in mind."

Lady Stark had not spoken since the godswood, had hardly seemed to notice what was going on, but she looked at him now, and, briefly, he thought he caught a glimpse of a smile. "Perhaps," she said, before Ellaria, with one final wink at him, closed the curtain. The litter was large enough for three, in truth, but it would be close. He rode alongside them, and though he could not make out the words, he heard Ellaria murmuring, and, once in a very long while, a soft answer from Sansa.

Ellaria insisted on giving over her own rooms for the lady's use; as the second-finest in the house, they were more suited to a lady of her rank than any of the others. Sansa protested vaguely, but seemed too distracted to do much more, and in such a state, she would be no match for Ellaria. Oberyn was tempted to offer her _his_ bed in jest, but the poor child was trembling with emotion already, and in no fit state for such japery. Indeed, there seemed to him a good chance that if he did say such, she might just bolt back out into the night.

That she should be overwhelmed was quite understandable — he itched all over with curiosity and excitement himself. In truth, he wanted nothing so much as to sit down with her and hear everything immediately, but he must also admit to himself that neither of them would get much from such an interview as they were at the moment. Her current wakefulness, he'd wager, was the stuff of battle-madness, and he knew _that_ well enough. It would not last much longer, and when it was spent, all the silvery strength he'd caught flashes of would be used up, and she would need rest. As for himself, he could almost hear his brother's voice — most of the sensible things he thought, his mind tended to speak in Doran's voice, or with Ellaria's — telling him that he hardly knew what questions to ask her just yet.

Bidding the lady goodnight, left for his own rooms to wait for Ellaria. "Besides," she was saying as she drew Sansa off, "I spend most nights in my prince's bed, so mine stands empty far too often. I almost feel sorry for the poor thing, and I shall sleep more easily knowing it has been given purpose again."

Oberyn was not certain, but he thought he heard a soft laugh — more a smiled breath than a real laugh, and like as not it was from nerves, not any true mirth, but he was surprised how much it pleased him nonetheless. Indeed, he was a little envious that Ellaria, not he, was the one who drew it out of her. On consideration, he had never seen her laugh. He had hardly exchanged ten words with the lady before today, to be sure, but something told him that she had not been laughing much where he could not see. _That must change, whatever becomes of her,_ he decided, as he took off his boots back in his bedchamber.

He said as much to Ellaria when she joined him not long after, after she had joined him in bed, curling up with her head on his chest. She turned just enough to kiss the bottom of his chin. "My prince has a tender heart," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Why, I cannot imagine how he came to have such a fearsome reputation."

He laughed, and caught one of her hands, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "You have found me out. But you must keep my secret, my lady; I have worked so very hard at cultivating the reputation you speak of."

"Nonsense," she said, the fingers on her free hand playing along his stomach, stopping to circle his navel. "Why, I think I shall send forth the ravens first thing tomorrow, unless you can make a _very_ good argument why I should not."

Oberyn's answer was to catch that hand as well, and roll on top of her. She gave a little squeal of laughter as he pinned her wrists above her head, and he could not resist tasting that laugh for himself.

"Poor Lady Stark," Oberyn murmured, trailing kisses along her chin, her cheeks, over to one of her ears. "She had as much energy to work off as I do, it seemed to me, and nothing half so pleasant on which to spend it."

Ellaria turned her head and gave him a strange little smile, but kissed him before he could ask her what it meant.

 

They had only just finished when there was a knock at the door. "M'lady?" came the soft voice of Ellaria's maid.

"One moment, Zia," Ellaria called back, donning her robe and tying it loosely before padding over to the door.

The girl did not even blush; he would like to think it was because she was so used to coming on them still cooling after their lovemaking, but the troubled look on her face said something different. _Sansa_ , he thought, but surely if it were something truly urgent she wouldn't have waited. _Zia has more sense than that._

Zia spoke too low for him to hear, but he could not miss Ellaria's gasp or the way she paled, the way her hand flew to her mouth in horror. He was on his feet at once, grabbing his own robe and joining them, but Ellaria waved him back. "Old, you said?" she asked, and the maid nodded. Ellaria swallowed, and finally said, "She seemed strong enough in the godswood. Best just to let her sleep, then, and once she has settled in, a maester can see to her."

"Yes," the girl said, and bobbed a little curtsey. "I beg your pardon for intruding, m'lady, my prince, but I thought you would wish to know at once."

"And you were quite right, it seems," Oberyn said, raising an eyebrow at Ellaria, who gave him only a brief, troubled look.

"I know I need hardly say it, Zia," she said, "but..."

"No one'll hear of it from me, m'lady," the girl said firmly, "and if any of the other girls sees to her, I'll make sure none hear of it from them, neither."

"Of course they won't. Thank you. You ought to get some sleep as well, then."

The maid bobbed a curtsey and left them. Some of the color had returned to Ellaria's face, but her eyes were far away as she turned.

"Lady Stark is well?" he prompted.

Ellaria nodded, sinking down into a chair. "She did not need help in changing; whatever dress she chose, she had managed herself."

"She meant to meet someone," Oberyn said, unsurprised. "She would not have wanted to rouse her maid's suspicion. But she was not sure who it might be, I think; she was surprised when we found her in the godswood..."

Another nod, distracted. "Yes. But that is not the trouble. As Zia was giving her a shift, she caught a glimpse...Lady Stark's back was a horror. She was all scars, from her shoulders to the backs of her knees. None were fresh, so Zia did not remark upon them in the moment, or think we must be interrupted, but — gods be good, Oberyn..."

"Joffrey." No sooner had Oberyn thought it than he was speaking the name. "My brother charged us to watch Myrcella closely during her first weeks in Sunspear, do you recall? It was because there had been rumors about her brother." The girl had been as sweet as any child he had ever seen, however — sweeter, indeed, than he had been at her age — and there had been nothing that troubled him, nor had Doran spoken of any such when they all removed to the Water Gardens a few months later.

"Surely not," Ellaria protested. "That the boy was cruel and foolish we saw for ourselves, but she was a _hostage_. To use a hostage so...she was his _betrothed_ , Oberyn, and a hostage, and little more than a child." But he knew Ellaria's voice, all its tones and changes. The horror he heard as she spoke was not truly disbelief.

For himself...there was a roar in his ears, like the wind on a mountaintop, but carried on that wind he thought he heard a woman screaming, and the wailing of babes. He had not heard such things in some time — his heart had begun to calm in the years since he had found Ellaria, the fires of rage and grief had ceased to swallow him from the inside — so perhaps he was mistaken, but he thought that where he had always heard one lady, now there was a second.

There seemed to be very little air in the room. He ought to speak, he ought to comfort his lady, but all his words had disappeared, and he stared at the fire, past it, seeing nothing. "She only trusted herself to us," someone said, and he realized dimly that it was his own voice, "after I told her that I hate the Lannisters."

He thought, from the corner of his eye, that Ellaria nodded, but he was not certain. His breath came slowly, in tiny sips of air, and he stared through the fire and saw only blood on the Red Keep's floor.

A touch on his hand started him, and he saw that Ellaria's dark, sweet eyes were focused on him now. "None of them were fresh," she reminded him gently. "Had they been, we would wake the maester at once. She was well enough that we never would have guessed, and you swore to her, by gods old and new, that the Lannisters will not have her again unwilling so long as you draw breath."

"And so they will not," he vowed, again. Ellaria kissed the back of his hand, gently, and then stood.

"We ought to sleep as well," she said. "I do not think we are clear of this storm yet."

"No," Oberyn agreed, but he did not follow her as she returned to bed. It was some time before her breathing slowed, and he knew that she had fallen asleep. Once he was certain, he began to dress, and put his dagger on his belt.

He took the chair from his desk as he passed through his solar, and once he reached Ellaria's door — now Lady Stark's — he set it down silently, and took his seat.

Even if the Lannisters knew where she was, he could not think that they would be foolish enough as to break into his home and steal her from her bed. _And if they are, there are guards aplenty between the gates and this door._ But then even as he told himself how ridiculous this was, he thought, _why, it would take the Mountain himself to have a chance of taking her from me._

So, perhaps for that very reason, he did not stand again, but stayed, toying with his dagger and listening to the soft, homely sounds of nighttime, listening for the sound of steel boots and heavy armor.

Ellaria was right, he reflected. They had much sailing to do before they passed through the storm. Perhaps he would have time to see all the Lannisters drowned.

* * *

**Ellaria**

Ellaria was not surprised to find Oberyn gone when she woke the next morning, his place in the bed long cold. Drawing on her robe, she made her way to her own rooms, and was equally unsurprised to find him sitting outside the door, idly tossing a dagger between hands.

"Forgive me, my dear," he said, rising. "A notion took me, and..." Oberyn trailed off, and glanced toward the closed door. She thought she heard soft movement within; whether Zia's or Lady Stark's, she could not have guessed.

"We shall be quite all right, my gallant prince." She put a hand on his neck and bent him down to kiss him. "I shall break my fast with the lady, and while you get some sleep, I shall see to her. If she seems to be ailing, of course I shall send for the maester at once. Since she seems strong enough, though, I think it might be easier on her to let her settle in first. Once we have both had time to speak with her, then a maester can see to her."

"Perhaps a septa, too," he said. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and she thought he had softened a little at the kiss, but he still did not smile. "They say the Imp never bedded her, but if her scars are as terrible as Zia says..."

Her heart seemed to seize again, but she said nothing, only stroked her prince's hair. "Oberyn, you need to sleep."

He _did_ smile now, just a little. "I have grown old," he complained, his eyes still haunted. "Why, twenty years ago, this would only be the start of a grand few days' adventure, with sleep a prize at the end."

She snorted, and gave him a shove in the direction of his rooms. "Sleep. This is not twenty years ago, thank the gods."

He gave her one last smile as he walked off, carrying the chair with him, but the haunted look never left his eyes that she could see. Sighing, she knocked softly. "It is only Ellaria," she called, opening the door slowly.

Sansa Stark was sitting up in bed, clutching the covers about her, though she still wore her shift. "My lady," she said, moving to rise. "Forgive me — "

The apology was a little pinprick in Ellaria's heart now that Zia had told her about the girl's scars, and she noted that the girl's eyes were near as shadowed as Oberyn's had been even as she smiled and waved her apology away. "On the contrary, my lady," she said. "You must forgive me for intruding. In my haste last night, I forgot to see to having any clothes for today brought over to my prince's rooms for me. I know I might have sent a maid, but I must confess — you will learn it soon enough, if you have not worked it out already, so I may as well tell you now — I am a silly old hen who can rarely resist clucking over any chick unlucky enough to cross her path."

Sansa's shy smile might have been the first little flower of spring, it did Ellaria such good to see it. "At any rate," she said, slipping behind the screen as Zia handed her a gown, "I shall give you your privacy in a moment. There is a pretty view of our little gardens from my solar, and it always does me good to break my fast there, there is so little greenery in this city. But if you wish to sleep longer, you must do so; I can take my breakfast in my prince's solar as easily as here, or even in the gardens themselves."

"No, my lady," Sansa said, as Ellaria stepped out from behind the screen. Dornish fashions were simpler, and Ellaria rarely required Zia's assistance. "I had already wakened, Zia was only fetching my gown."

"As you like," Ellaria said, giving the girl another smile as she gathered a few hairpins. "I shall leave you to it, then; join me whenever you like."

 

Sansa dressed quickly as well — Ellaria hardly had time to open the curtains and window and frown from her little balcony across the gardens to her prince's solar, where she saw Oberyn standing on his own little balcony, gazing down at the fountain. She nearly shouted to him that he must sleep, so it was likely just as well that Sansa entered then, clad in the dark gown she had changed into last night, before they found her in the godswood. Ellaria tutted when she saw her. "Oh, we shall have to find you things to wear. You are a little taller than I am, but I think some of my gowns can be let out, at least, don't you, Zia?"

"Yes, my lady," Zia said. "I thought the green one, to start with?"

"How clever of you," Ellaria exclaimed, and explained to Lady Sansa, "It is a lovely dress, just the color of new leaves in spring, but I never felt I did it justice. It will suit you beautifully, though. Yes, certainly, the green one, and pick a few others, at least — once things are more settled, we shall send to the Red Keep for your things, but in the meantime — " She stopped, for the young lady had gone white.

"Is that — my lady, will that be safe for Prince Oberyn? If — when the Queen learns that I am here — he must not put himself into danger on my behalf." Sansa's voice was soft, nearly strangled, and Ellaria crossed the room to her. The dear thing stiffened, just a little, before Ellaria could take her into her arms as she wished, but she supposed she ought to be grateful for that — they had barely exchanged three words before yesterday, and Ellaria knew that, just as she had warned, she was only being a silly old hen. She settled for taking Sansa's hands in hers, instead.

"My prince made you a vow," she said, looking into the girl's silvery-blue eyes. Sansa had not looked away, but her eyes seemed to see through Ellaria, to look past her — the way her prince had looked last night, when Zia had come to them, the way she expected he looked now, gazing down at the fountain, though of course he was too distant to be certain. "The Lannisters will not have you unwilling. He swore as much again last night. My lady, may I tell you something?"

Sansa only nodded, her eyes still far away.

Glancing across the gardens, she saw that Oberyn's balcony stood empty, which was some relief, at least. She still didn't know whether he was sleeping, but she would tell Daemon to report to her later, and see to it that he did, one way or another. "My prince is only now abed, since I woke and came to you. He sat the whole night through outside your door, to ensure that you were properly guarded."

Sansa seemed not to hear for a moment, but then her eyes snapped, suddenly, back to Ellaria's, and widened a little. "I — he did not need to do that, my lady," was all she said. "I have no doubt that I am quite safe here..."

"And so you are," Ellaria said, squeezing her hands, just a little. They were very cold. "But you are mistaken, I think, in saying that he did not need to do it. He did, for his own sake as much as yours. It was the same with the vow he made you in the godswood. It was for your sake, to be sure. But it was for his own, also, and his brother's besides. The Martells have learned at great cost how dangerous the Red Keep can be."

Slowly, some color seemed to have returned to Lady Stark's face. "Yes," she said. "I — I would ask that you give him my thanks, my lady. He has been very kind to me. You both have," she added, dropping her gaze. "I — really, you need not trouble yourself about my clothes. This will suit well enough."

"Nonsense," Ellaria said, and gave the girl's hands one last squeeze, then tucked Sansa's arm under hers and guided her to the breakfast table. "As I say, the green gown never quite suited me anyway, and there is no sense in letting it lay in some trunk unused for the moths to feast on when there is a lady here who can not only make use of it, but who will look far finer in it than I ever did besides. The dresses of the bastard paramour of the Prince of Dorne's younger brother are hardly fine enough for a lady of your station, but they will do, for the moment."

Demure as she was, Sansa could not quite hide the startled look that crossed her face. "I cannot think they will be anything but lovely, my lady. You have fine taste, from what I have seen."

"Forgive me if I've shocked you," Ellaria said, pouring them both cold watered wine, flavored with a little bit of lemon and blood orange. "Such things are less politely spoken of in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, I know. Bastardy is less of a shame in Dorne, I think, than it is here; Oberyn cannot marry me, of course, but his brother has three children already, all of whom precede Oberyn, to say nothing of any children _they_ might have, so there is less need for him to produce a trueborn heir anyway. You have a half-brother of your own, do you not?"

"Jon Snow," Sansa said, taking a few berries from the tray of fruit. "He joined the Night's Watch. He was born in Dorne, I think."

"I had heard something of that," Ellaria said. "Have you any news of him recently? There is talk of a great ranging, but of course we hear little of the Watch so far south."

"No, my lady," was all Sansa said. She seemed about to say more, but took up her cup to sip from it instead. She did not eat much so far, that Ellaria could see, but then, there had been seventy-seven courses last night, which would fill one up. She did not have such a great appetite herself just yet. She waited a little longer, and then Sansa added, more softly than ever, "I was...I had little correspondence."

Ellaria could not help _tsk_ ing at that, though she supposed it was hardly a surprise. "Hmph. To be sure. Well, if you wish to write to him, _we_ shall be happy to find some paper and ink for you," was all Ellaria said. "Once word reaches him of the wedding, I do not doubt he will be glad to hear that you are safe, and I expect he has all sorts of exciting news from the Wall, besides. My daughter Loreza is quite mad for stories of the Watch, as it happens. I don't think she entirely believes that the Wall exists — you may not be surprised to hear that such an abundance of ice is difficult to picture in Dorne."

She was rewarded, then, with another of those shy smiles. "There it is," Ellaria said, beaming herself. "Do you know, Oberyn thought he heard you laugh at some silly thing I said last night, and he was more than passingly jealous. Men are always so determined to be the first at everything, and I had to give him a good many kisses to make up for having been the first to make you laugh, that he had seen."

Sansa's cheeks went pink then, and she began to stammer something, and Ellaria laughed a little, and reached out to pat the girl's hand in apology. "I have shocked you again, my lady, I _am_ sorry. Here I meant this breakfast to be a calm affair, to help you settle in more easily. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable, only to affirm to you that so long as you are part of his household, my prince intends that everything should be done for your comfort and happiness. I expect there is more hardship to come yet, but every man and woman here will do their utmost to shield you from it, or at least to strengthen you against it."

Sansa did not answer that, only looked up from Ellaria's hand on hers long enough to meet her eyes, then turned her head away.

She was silent about it, but Ellaria could not miss the slow, trembling breath she drew, and it took all her strength not to leap from her chair and take the lady into her arms as she would one of her own girls. The only thing that stopped her was the knowledge that, if such commonplace kindness as she had shown thus far was enough to overwhelm Lady Stark, such an embrace might only do more harm than good in the moment. She contented herself, instead, with squeezing the hand that still rested under hers, then finding one of her handkerchiefs and sliding it, quietly, within reach of Sansa's fingertips.

"I thank you, my lady," she said, as she took the handkerchief and dashed it, quickly, to her eyes. Her voice was thick with emotion, but it was no whisper, at least. That, Ellaria reflected, as she hummed some mild courtesy and piled a few slices of her peach onto Sansa's plate, was something.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaaaa, I've only just caught up on the comments to the first chapter and started responding to those on the second, so obviously it was a good idea to post the third. Apologies for being so slow to reply; I'm not used to getting so much feedback, and it's all been so kind! I'm so glad that people are enjoying it, and I'm always delighted to hear from you, even though I am terrible about replying in any kind of timely fashion.

**Sansa**

It was a relief in the afternoon, when Prince Oberyn finally wakened and summoned her to his solar, to have something more than Lady Sand's kindness to face. ("Ellaria, my dear, you must call me Ellaria," she had said once or twice. She did not seem to mind when Sansa forgot, but that only made her feel worse, so she was trying to avoid saying much at all for the time being.) She was as warm and merry as Margaery had been in the beginning, but where Margaery had been small and dainty and lively as a hummingbird, Ellaria Sand was more patient and languid. _Like spring and summer,_ Sansa thought, as they sat in the little courtyard at the center of the Prince's household. Lady Sand had some letters from the Water Gardens about her daughters, and she had found a few books of stories and poems that she thought Sansa might enjoy, which made a fine excuse for her to sit with her thoughts.

Oh, it was so hard, to remind herself how quickly Margaery had left her behind, and of how kind Queen Cersei had been at the beginning, too. It made her heart ache to think of it, to try to think of how — or why, or when — Lady Sand's kindnesses might dry up, too, just like Margaery's and the Queen's. More, it made her weary, trying to spot the true motive behind all their kindnesses, Lady Sand's and her maid Zia's and the other maids' and Prince Oberyn's squire's.

 _It is easier in the Red Keep, in some ways,_ she found herself thinking, as she sat silently, her eyes passing the same verse over and over without her ever really reading it. _No one really notices me for the sake of any kindness there, so there is no need for me to study everything sweet and try to find the trap it baits._

She still thought "is", she realized. She must be careful of that around Prince Oberyn. He had promised her she would not have to go back. That was too good to be true, she thought, deep down, but she must not insult his honor by saying so out loud. Who knew what he might do with her in his disgust?

Just then, though, Daemon Sand came upon them, and told them that the prince begged their company. Sansa's insides seemed to freeze, but she told herself that at least now she would know what he intended to do with her. She was still a hostage here, she thought, and if he meant to tell her as much, well, it seemed a nicer prison than the Keep had been so far. She wished there were a godswood, though.

"I hope you do not mind if I join you," Ellaria said, as they made their way back inside. "If there is aught you would speak of privily, only say so, and I shall withdraw. But my prince and I thought you might be more at your ease if were there as well; I know the tales they tell of him, and so we thought a chaperone might suit."

Sansa felt herself redden, and hardly knew how to answer. "The prince has been very kind to me, my lady," she finally said.

Ellaria took Sansa's arm with her own, and patted her hand. "Be at ease, sweetling. The tales about Dorne, and my prince in particular, are hardly of your own making. Even if they were, I dare say Oberyn and I should be too impressed at your spreading them so far and wide to take any offense. You certainly need not make apologies for having heard them. He wishes only, now that we have all had some time to rest and recover, to try to make sense of everything."

"So do I," Sansa said. _That_ , at least, was the unvarnished truth. Indeed, she could not recall when she had last felt so certain of something she said.

"Yes, I should expect so," Ellaria said, with a sympathetic smile, as they reached an open door and she guided Sansa through it.

Prince Oberyn, she saw briefly, had been out on the small balcony by his window, looking down over the gardens bathed in the afternoon light, but he came back in as they entered. "My ladies," he said, with perfect graciousness, bowing to them both.

Sansa meant to extract her arm from Ellaria's and dip into a curtsey, but the other woman only snorted, and Sansa had to manage a sort of bobbing half-curtsey. "He says 'ladies', but I assure you, Lady Stark, the courtesies are entirely for your benefit," she said, but there was a fond smile on her face as she looked at him, and sweet little crinkles in the corners of her eyes.

"He has been most generous, my lady," Sansa said, which seemed safest.

"Well, I am certainly glad to see he has not forgotten all his manners; I daresay you are quite useful to have around." She drew Sansa over to the breakfast table, and the prince pulled out her chair for her, and then Ellaria's, as well. He took Ellaria's hand briefly, and kissed it, with the same soft look in his eyes as she had for him.

The sight of their affection for each other brought a strange lump to Sansa's throat, and she distracted herself by trying to look about without seeming to stare. _Why, it's no different from my solar in Lord Tyrion's rooms,_ Sansa thought. _It's only a little bigger than Ellaria's._ Then she thought how stupid that was. It was just a _solar_ , what shocking decadence had she expected? There was the little balcony that looked down into the gardens, and fine orange silk curtains, and a writing desk, and other perfectly ordinary furnishings. Oh, she _must_ be careful; better that she should say little enough for them to think her slow-witted than that she should say something to offend them.

"I only forget myself in my lady's presence," the prince said, and Ellaria rolled her eyes and took up the flagon of wine to pour, a smile still playing at the corner of her mouth.

As Ellaria was filling Sansa's glass, Oberyn turned his dark gaze on her for the first time since last night, and Sansa felt her heart leap to her throat. _Say something,_ she thought. _Say something, or he'll send you back —_

"I do not know how to thank you, my prince," she said. _Good, that is a good start._

"Do not trouble yourself," the prince said, taking up his cup. He did not drink, though, only stared into its depths. He set it down, took a deep breath, and looked up at her again. He spoke his next as calmly as if he were asking how she liked the gardens, but his smile was gone. "If anything, you ought to curse me for not taking you away from there sooner. Me, and every other man in this city."

What could she possibly say to that? Her mind was blank, until Joff's stupid sneering face appeared in it, and, dropping her eyes to her hands, clasped in her lap, she echoed what they had told her in the Keep. "I have been treated more kindly than I had any right to expect in light of my family's treasons."

"Gods be good," the prince murmured, and when she chanced a look up, she saw naked disbelief on his face. She looked back down at her hands, trying to blink away the hot prickling behind her eyes. What did he expect her to say? What did he _want_ her to say?

It was Lady Ellaria who helped her, pushing her cup closer to her. "Drink, my lady," she said gently. "My prince's anger is not for you, do not think that for a moment."

"With her?" Prince Oberyn repeated, and as Sansa took a sip from her cup — watered wine, with a bit of juice, the same as at breakfast, but with a little more wine this time — he blinked at his lady as if he had never heard something so ridiculous in his life. "Seven hells, I should think not."

"What else is she to think, my dear?" she asked, a little sharply, and then saw how Sansa flinched a little, and sighed. "Forgive me, my lady. We are neither of us wroth with you, you have my word."

"No indeed," Oberyn said, and took up his cup to drink at last. When he set it back down, he sighed, and rubbed his face with his free hand before meeting her eyes once again. "My lady, I must tell you that of the two of us, my brother has all the skill with words. I ought to speak you more delicately, but when I try to think of gentler ways to say some of the necessary things, ask the necessary questions, I fear that I find myself too quickly filled with anger at what little I know you have endured to go softly as I ought. Allow me to begin with this — you entrusted yourself to my care last night when I told you that I hate the Lannisters. You owe me nothing, least of all gratitude, for taking you from them. I think I know only the smallest part of what you have been made to bear at their hands, and that is enough to make me deeply ashamed that I did not carry you away from them the moment I arrived in this thrice-damned city."

It was a trap, it must be — he was too kind, he was too good, he understood too much. But stupid, _stupid_ little girl that she was, some new-awakened thing in Sansa's heart let out a howl of rage and joy.  "You have done more than anyone else," burst out of her, and the creature in her heart was so fierce and giddy with its waking that she hardly cared, anymore, if this _was_ a trap. _Perhaps I_ am _stupid, but Joff was even stupider,_ the creature in her heart seemed to say, _he was much too stupid to come up with any trap this elaborate, and no one who isn't cares about me enough to do it._

It was a wolf, she thought wildly, a fierce wolf that she thought they'd killed, that _they_ thought they'd killed, but maybe she had only been curled up, sleeping, until the moment he looked in her eyes in the godswood and told her he hated them, too.

The wolf in her heart made it easier to bear, as they spoke. She told him what she could, though that was little enough, in truth. He had worked it out about the hairnet, of course, and he said that it was a poison called the Strangler. "Even rarer than true black amethysts," he said, with a flash of his smile. "If you _had_ used it to pay your way, they could have taken you to Asshai and back, and in great luxury, besides. Would you like to go to Asshai?"

"Perhaps," she said softly, but she managed to meet his smile with one of her own. Maybe it was the wine that made her so brave; watered or not, she was well into her third cup by now.

He gave a low chuckle. "I could see you were a brave maid already. I confess, I have always wanted to see Asshai myself." Gazing down at the hairnet again, he returned to the subject at hand. "Ellaria noticed that you had lost an amethyst when we first went in for the feast," he said. "I expect your maid would have noticed and remarked upon it if one was already missing while she dressed your hair, unless, of course, it was she who took it..."

"One of my maids wanted to go," Sansa recalled suddenly. "Shae. But she said that she would stay below the salt; she only wanted to see the festivities."

"Oh?" Oberyn only looked curious. "And what did you say to her?"

"I didn't know what to say," Sansa admitted. "I thought there might not be any harm in it, but before I could say anything, Lord Tyrion told her no."

"Did he, now?" Oberyn frowned. "That is most interesting. You said her name was Shae?"

"Yes. But — she can be a little sullen sometimes, but I do not think there is any harm in her, not truly — she only wanted to see the pigeons fly out of the pie," she finished lamely.

Oberyn smiled a little, distractedly. "Be at ease, my lady," he said. "Most like she _was_ only a sometimes-sullen maid who wished to see the pigeons. We shall question her to be sure. Do you recall, was there anyone else who touched your hair after your maid was finished with it? Did the Imp remark upon it, or..."

She shook her head. Tyrion had said some things about how fine she looked, as he often did, but even if he could have reached her hair, he had not tried to touch her since their wedding, save to take her arm as they walked into some function or other. But — _someone_ had said something, it seemed to her, had reached out — "No...well — Lady Olenna Tyrell said that the wind had been at my hair, and went to fix it, but — _no,_ " she gasped, seeing the way Oberyn's eyebrows went up. "You cannot think — "

He snorted. "I can think a great deal of that one, I promise you. She will have heard the rumors about Joffrey, same as we had in Dorne, and seen him for herself when she came — "

 _Oh, no,_ Sansa thought, remembering anew the day that Margaery had first summoned her. She had tried not to think on it too much since then; it was too painful, knowing how they had all turned away from her after her wedding. But now... "She had," she whispered, and she tried to explain about when she had met Margaery for the first time, and her grandmother. "She had heard things, and she asked me, and I said it was true, I said he was a monster, and she said they would see to it — I thought they only meant to break the engagement, and I was frightened, because it would mean I would have to marry him again, but she meant this, didn't she?"

"I expect so," Oberyn said, but he did not look half so troubled as she felt. He only seemed to be thinking about it all, trying to work it out, as he had before. She felt — she did not know how to feel; she thought she might be sick, but a part of her felt almost _proud_ , and that made her feel even sicker —

As if she knew, Lady Ellaria, who had been quiet, spoke up then. "This was not your fault," she said, taking Sansa's hand in her own.

"But I _told_ them — I _wanted_ him to die, and then he _did_ , because _I told them_ — "

"No," Oberyn said, quietly but firmly. "Someone would have told them. We had heard things all the way off in Sunspear, long before I set out for King's Landing. When Myrcella first arrived, my brother bade me watch her for any signs of such cruelty as we had heard her brother possessed. I promise you, if the Tyrells had not made up their minds already, they would have done soon enough, with your word or someone else's."

"But it wasn't someone else's word," Sansa said. "It was mine, and they used me to do it besides, and now they think it was Tyrion, and it was _me_."

"Joffrey killed himself," Oberyn said grimly. "You were quite right, he was a monster, and someone would have slain him in the end. Indeed, I am sorry that I was not the one to do it, but I was too concerned with another of Tywin Lannister's monsters to deal with the one who sat the Iron Throne."

There was silence at the table for a few moments, and then, at last, Sansa whispered, "I wish I had known. I would have done it, if they'd asked. Perhaps I'm a monster, too."

"No," the prince said, fiercely, and Ellaria squeezed her hand again.

She was not certain whether she believed him, but her head was too full for her to argue, at least for now.

"My lady," Ellaria said at last, "there is one other matter. I told you — " she looked over at Oberyn fondly, and he gave a distracted smile back, "that my prince sat watch outside your door while you slept."

Sansa remembered, and flushed. "Of course," she said. "I — forgive me, I ought to have thanked you before — "

"Oh, my dear," Ellaria said, "no, no, that is not what I meant." There was such sorrow in her voice as she spoke that it only made Sansa sorrier, and she tried once more to apologize, and finally, Oberyn cut in.

"My lady wishes to tell you why," he said. His voice was low, his words for the three of them only, though of course there was no one else in the room, and the doors were all closed, and evening starting to fall outside the window. His eyes were far away, she noticed, as he continued in that low voice. He took Ellaria's free hand in his own, and Sansa saw, with a start, that his hand shook, just a little. She might have thought she'd imagined it, except that Ellaria raised it to her lips, as he had done with her hand earlier, and then turned her gaze back to Sansa.

"Zia came to speak with us last night," she said. "She was worried for you."

"Worried?" Sansa tried to remember what she might have said, or done, to make the maid worry — it had only been hours before, not yet a full day, but sometimes everything seemed clear and sharp as broken glass, and sometimes it seemed a blur, as if it had happened years ago. "She was very kind to me...I was overwhelmed, but — I'm sorry, my lady, I can't recall. I'm very sorry to have frightened her."

"She saw that you seemed quite strong," Ellaria said. "That was why she did not say anything, but...while you were undressing, my lady, she caught a glimpse of your back, and..."

"Oh," Sansa said, understanding, with a feeling like a brick in her belly. _They would have learned eventually,_ she thought, but that did not make her feel any better. "I — I am still quite healthy, my lady," she said. "The maester said they will fade with time, a little." In fact, Maester Pycelle had said that they _might_ fade, and then only some. She had not much cared after they married her to Tyrion; he, at least, did not seem to mind her disfigurement, and no one besides him and a few servants would ever see them.

Oberyn only waved her words away, shaking his head. "There are many who find scars quite attractive," he said, with a smile, but it did not reach his eyes, and his words did not really sound like the jest he seemed to mean them.

Ellaria sighed at him. "My lady," she said, more more gently still, "we only feared for what pains they might give you. You seem strong enough, to be sure, but is there aught you need for them? Would you like for a maester to see to them?"

She thought she had been shocked before, when she had told them about the Queen of Thorns, but this — she could not speak for some moments, and she realized suddenly that she was gaping at them. "They are old, my lady," she said at last, stupidly.

"Yes," Ellaria said, with a queer little twist of her mouth. "Zia said none were fresh, which was a relief — elsewise, I assure you, we would have summoned a maester immediately. I am glad they were not, for your sake, but...I suppose I only I wish we might have been here sooner, that we might have done something."

"Lady Stark," Oberyn said, his voice so strangely quiet and steady, though she saw how he gripped his lady's hand, "I will leave, if it would be easier to speak of with another woman — but I — we — would know..."

"You needn't," she said, before she had really thought about it. _It would be rude_ , she thought, but truth be told, that was not it. _Whatever I tell Ellaria, he will hear of it eventually_ — that was true, but still, that was not really it, either. "I am not afraid," she said. And it was true. Lady could always tell when she should be afraid; before Sansa had even laid eyes on Ser Ilyn's face Lady had known that she should be afraid. And when she knew she shouldn't, she was as sweet as any dog could ever be, sniffing and then pricking her ears up and wagging her tail. And so, too, the wolf in Sansa's heart, the one that they had woken, had decided to trust them, that wild part of her, and she wasn't afraid, she really wasn't. She was not _brave_ , not really, but she wasn't afraid of _them_ , at least. "I only remember a little, really. But it was...after battles, and things, later. Oxcross, that was the worst of it, that was the first in the Great Hall, before the court, and after that — "

She meant that to be reassuring; the beatings were for littler things before that, and he would get bored quickly, and it was only the two of them and whichever Kingsguard he wanted to do it. Maybe a few others, if they were in the yard, or somewhere else in the castle. The Great Hall was the worst, but Lord Tyrion had stopped it, and Joff had not dared to do it again after that. That was all she meant to tell them.

But Ellaria — Ellaria, bright and warm and, for everything she said about being a silly hen, unflappable — Ellaria had gasped when she mentioned the Great Hall, and the hand in which she still held one of Sansa's tightened so that Sansa hissed a little. It was surprise, more than real pain, but Ellaria's eyes went wide, and she let go of Sansa's hand altogether, looking sadder than Sansa would have guessed she could. She murmured something in apology, and Sansa meant to tell her no, it was her fault; she could tell it was, even if she wasn't sure exactly how — and she noticed vaguely, from the corner of her eye, how Ellaria and Oberyn's hands, still intertwined, went white at the knuckles.

"The Great Hall?" Oberyn asked, before she could apologize for whatever it was she had said to upset Ellaria so. His voice was quieter than ever, so she could not be sure, but she thought it shook a little. "The Great Hall," he repeated, as if he did not think he had heard her correctly. "With the court about him. About you."

The way he said it, then, Sansa felt her face go red, and she looked down at her lap, where her empty hands were clasped. "Yes," she said, and then, because she did not know how long this strange courage would last, she said, as quickly as she could, while trying to keep her voice from shaking too much, "Yes, but only the once there. Lord Tyrion came upon us and put a stop to it, and after that, Joff never did it again. When my father first — when my father first died," (for her voice quavered then) "he had them hit me on my face, a few times, but I did not learn fast enough to say what he liked, I suppose, and he — "

She ran out of breath, but neither of them spoke, and she said, at last, "He liked me pretty."

Silence greeted her. Looking up, she saw that Ellaria had closed her eyes. She was turned away, but Sansa could still see that her eyes were closed, and she could not miss the way her shoulders heaved as she drew a long, shaky breath. Oberyn's dark eyes were still on her, though, and at last, he let go of Ellaria's hand and rose from the table to stride over to his balcony again. She could see the tension in his back. Sansa did not know what she ought to say, what she ought to tell them; she had tried to tell them not to trouble themselves. It wasn't as if it hurt anymore, and Joff was dead, and they had promised she was safe here.

At last, Ellaria looked back at Sansa. Her eyes were bright, but she did not seem to be weeping, at least. She took both of Sansa's hands in hers, but careful, barely holding onto them, as if she feared she might hurt her, and she only stared down at them for several moments, running her thumbs over the hills of Sansa's knuckles. At last, she took another breath, this one steadier, and looked back up. "You said that Lord Tyrion put a stop to it," she said.

Sansa nodded, but Ellaria did not let go of her hands just yet. "Yes," she said. "He yelled at Joff, and took me to the Tower of the Hand, and had a maester see to me."

"He was angry, then?" asked Oberyn. His voice was very quiet, and yet Sansa could hear every word. "The Imp. He was angry?"

"Yes," Sansa said. "He said that he did not intend for the marriage to go ahead after that. Later, before the battle, he said that perhaps he should have sent me to Dorne with Myrcella."

Ellaria smiled at that, looking up, and Oberyn gave a strange, strangled sound that she realized, as he turned back, was a laugh. "He might have saved us all a good deal of trouble," he said, as he approached the table again. "You most of all, to be sure, but Doran would have been delighted — pretty little brides for both of his sons!"

The little snort Ellaria gave began to put Sansa back at her ease, at least a little. "Somehow, my love, I do not think Prince Doran's _son_ is the husband Lady Sansa would have found in Dorne."

Sansa was not certain what she meant by that, but it made Oberyn chuckle, a true laugh this time, if a weak one. He sat back down at last, but he did not speak just yet. He only looked into her eyes for a moment, and then at Ellaria, who looked back at him and drew in a deep breath.

"This is a harder question, my lady," she said. "You must forgive me for it, but...perhaps it will be easier from me than a stranger, a maester or a septa. There were rumors about Lord Tyrion, and it seems that he was kind to you..."

"He was," Sansa said. There were the looks he gave her sometimes, the hungry, sad ones, but if those were the hardest thing she had endured in the Red Keep she should have counted herself lucky. "He wouldn't let Joff beat me, and he never struck me. He hardly touched me at all." That was best. It had been lonely, haunting his tower and pretending to see to things like meals, while knowing she really had nothing to do with them. Lonely and boring. But that was better than what her life in the Keep had been before she was married, and with Dontos's promise to carry in her heart, knowing that she would go home soon, she could bear it easily enough.

"Yes," Lady Ellaria said, nodding. "That is what we had heard. But, my lady..." She took another deep breath, and it trembled a little. "Was there anything else that was done to you? Were you — hurt, let us say — in ways beyond the beatings?"

Sansa did not understand what she meant at first, did not know how to begin answering such a question. _I have never known a day without fear._ But that could not be what they meant, they couldn't be concerned with something so silly as her stupid heart, with its fears and aches. "I...I don't..."

Then she saw how Oberyn had covered his eyes with one of his hands, how tense he seemed. She saw the fear in Lady Sand's eyes, recalled how the prince had offered to leave them, and suddenly she understood.

"Oh," she said, her cheeks flaring red. "No, my lady. I am — I am still a maid," she managed, in barely a whisper. She said a little prayer of thanks to the gods for it. Sansa did not think, really, that they would turn her out if she were not a maid, not with what she knew of the prince, what Lady Sand had said about how he had done all of this for his family's sake as well as her own. But at least this way she had something more to offer them, if her husband were to be found guilty.

Prince Oberyn's shoulders lowered a little at that, and he looked back at her, and gave her a little smile, so sad that she hardly recognized it as such. "Well," he said, "I am glad that you were spared something, at least."

She could not have said what made her do it. The wine, most likely. But suddenly, she was seized by a strange surge of...gratitude, she supposed, or something like it. Whatever it was, it made her brave, and, taking one of her hands out of Ellaria's, she reached out for him. Her courage faltered before she could do more than brush his fingertips with her own, but he caught her hand. Looking back up, she thought that something in his face was at least a little softer.

He asked her a few more things, but as evening was starting to fall around them, Ser Daemon Sand came with a message from the Red Keep. Oberyn looked at it, but only nodded and thanked his squire. "It is no more than I expected," he said dismissively. "Lord Tywin bids an audience with me come morning, and Mace Tyrell as well. I shall see to having some of your things brought from the Keep whilst I am there, my lady."

Her fear returned then, though it was not so powerful as it had been last night, at least. "My prince," she said, "I am quite well provided for here. Lady — Ellaria has ordered that some of her gowns should be let out. I beg you not to — "

But he was already waving her protest away. "On the contrary, I beg you will not trouble _your_ self on _my_ account. To be sure, the Lannisters will find it most irksome, but you are quite safe here, and they cannot lay hands on me without. I confess, I will take no small pleasure in needling them so." There was a look of satisfaction in his eyes as he refilled all their glasses. "It is the very least of what I owe them."

* * *

**Doran**

The message, Doran was informed, arrived in Sunspear not long after dawn, and when it was seen to be in his brother's hand, it was sent on to the Water Gardens with all due haste. He was only wakened a little earlier than was his wont, in truth; he did not sleep well without milk of the poppy or dreamwine, but he could not afford to spend too many nights entirely insensible, nor the time it took him to re-gather his wits the morning after taking such.

 _I write this near a day after it happened, and I will not flatter myself that I have beaten your friends in this wretched city to delivering the news,_ his brother began. _You will forgive me, I hope, and in apology, I can at least offer some parts of the story that, I believe, even you will not have heard yet._

The letter was short, for that promise; Doran took this as an even more intriguing sign, that Oberyn would not risk the full story falling into someone else's hands. What little his brother told him was interesting enough — the very first of the ravens, bearing news of the King's death and the Imp's arrest last week, had indeed arrived already, as Oberyn guessed. The very first of the messages had reached him near three days past. But this of _a direwolf in the Red Keep's godswood, who is now comfortably settled in mine own household_ — now _that_ was interesting. So far as anyone in King's Landing had known, at least when the first of the ravens went forth, Sansa Stark had vanished.

So, one of his sources had mentioned, had a fool, but Oberyn made no mention of collecting him from the godswood, too. Likely the fellow had just been trampled in the crowd, as the earlier message had said, or stumbled, drunk, into the Blackwater and drowned. But, as he recalled from last year's letters, the man only lived because of Sansa Stark's intercession with the King on his behalf. An interesting coincidence, at the very least.

Doran was not particularly surprised by Oberyn's mention of the lady's scars, more...disappointed, perhaps. Hints had reached him here, to be sure, but Tywin Lannister's children, at least, did not seem to indulge in terror and torment purely for sport (for other reasons aplenty, certainly, but not simply for the fun of it), and the one of his grandchildren with whom Doran was acquainted was a bright, open-hearted little creature.

One would think he knew better than to give any Lannister the benefit of the doubt, though. Perhaps he had seized too quickly on Myrcella's sweet nature as a sign that there was reason for some hope.

 _For myself,_ his brother wrote, _I would have the lady on the next ship to Sunspear, but there are none for three days yet, and by that time, I suspect it will be a trick to get her to it unremarked._

That excuse, Doran did not think much of, in truth. Oh, certainly, his brother was not known for discretion, but that was largely by his own doing: that no one could imagine him doing things in stealth made doing them that much simpler. If he were determined, he would get the lady onto any ship he pleased, even if he had to roll her up in a carpet. He was not therefore surprised to see that Oberyn went on. _Besides, there are few I would trust to deliver her safely, most of those still in Dorne — I told you I ought to bring a few of my daughters with me — and, as I have just been informed I am to serve as one of the Imp's judges, alongside Mace Tyrell and Tywin Lannister, I shall not be able to do the job myself 'till after the business is over. As well, though there was no real love between them, the lady believes in her lord husband's innocence, and wishes to do what she might to see him freed._

These excuses, now, _those_ surprised Doran, and he mulled them over as he wheeled his chair out to his accustomed place on the terrace. Oh, this of not trusting anyone to deliver her was part of it rang true enough...but there were Ser Daemon and Ellaria, at least, and Doran was certain that no few of the lords and ladies in his brother's party would have been honored by the task. No, for all that it came at the end of them, his desire to honor the young lady's own wishes seemed to be the deciding factor. Coupled with his determination that none but himself should see her to Dorne...why, they almost seemed to speak of an unexpected depth of feeling.

As soon as he the thought crossed his mind, Doran smiled at his own fancy. Still, it was an intriguing notion, and stranger things had happened than his brother taking it into his head to play the gallant for a fair maiden.

What little of Sansa Stark's version of the tale Oberyn trusted to reach him raised more questions than it answered, of course. But that was more than enough for things to begin taking shape in his mind — not plans, nothing so certain as that yet. Notions, though...oh, yes, he had several of those.

As the children began to trickle in and the early-morning noise of birds and fountains gave way to laughter, Doran watched for a little golden head, with a white cloak close by. He had bidden his daughter send Myrcella here two days past, feeling that he should tell her of her brother's death himself. She had borne it like a queen, without a single tear that he could see. She seemed more distressed to learn that her uncle was accused, but even then, she remained confident that he would be fine. "Uncle Tyrion slapped Joff once, and Joff hated him, but he would never _kill_ him," she had told him, firmly.

When he had asked that Oberyn and Ellaria watch the child, on her arrival in Dorne, for any sign of something like what he had heard of her brother...they had nothing but good to say of her, except for one incident, one little thing that unsettled Ellaria and that she could not put aside, and Oberyn had therefore advised her to send on to Doran. _She misses her uncle and her mother, but mostly she seems troubled over her little brother,_ Ellaria wrote. _She misses him, but she says, too, that she worries for him. This in itself is only a sign of her good heart, but she said, also, that she was glad when Joffrey became King, because his own rooms were so far away from Tommen's, now. She did not say more than that when I asked her, and seemed more distressed than I have seen her in all her time here, so far from her home and family. It is a little thing, I know, and I expect — or, perhaps, I only hope — that I am making too much of it, but some motherly part of me would not let me forget it._

He spotted her now, sitting on the edge of one of the pools. She seemed to be gazing at her feet, which dangled in the water. He could not see if she wept.

After he considered his brother's letter a little longer, he at last bade Areo send someone to fetch Myrcella, that he might speak with her. She came before him directly, and he saw that though her face was solemn, her eyes were dry.

"Good morning, Prince Doran," she said, curtseying prettily. "I hope you are well today."

"I might say the same to you, Princess," he said, unable to help a little smile, bowing his head in return. He gestured to the little table laid out for him — he had little appetite these days, but liked to have some small things nearby, a bit of cheese and flatbread or a bowl of grapes. "Would you like something?"

"No thank you," she said. "I have already broken my fast."

"I have had a letter," he said, holding up the folded paper. "From my brother, in King's Landing, and I hope you might be able to help me understand a little more of the things he tells me. I beg you, my princess, before you left King's Landing, were you acquainted at all with Lady Sansa Stark?"

She did not smile, but her emerald eyes seemed to lighten. "Lady Sansa is very beautiful, as beautiful as Mother and Princess Arianne." Myrcella, from what he had seen and heard, was rather in awe of his daughter, near as much as his elder nieces. He had hoped that might bring her to the Water Gardens more often, to accompany the little princess, but...

Well, that was another matter, and Myrcella had more to tell him yet. "She's also very kind. Mother said she had traitor's blood...Joff said so too," she said, as an afterthought, "and I guess that was true, but I don't know how she could have been a traitor herself. Joff said her father tried to give his throne to one of Father's brothers, but it's not as if she had anything to do with that. Her brother did treason, when he said he was a king, but he was all the way in the North and she was in King's Landing, so I don't see how _that_ was her fault, either, do you?"

"A very good point," Doran said.

"She saw Joffrey cry, though, when his arm got hurt on the Trident," Myrcella said, thoughtfully. "He said he hated her for it, after the maester saw to his wounds, and I asked if he still meant to marry her, then, and he said I was as stupid as she was, which he usually just said when he was being awful...oh," she said, suddenly, her face falling. "I'm sorry, my prince. I shouldn't have said that, now that he's dead. It's not polite to say such things about dead people."

"It's quite all right," he told her. "Sometimes I forget myself, and say something of how annoying my little sister was, running after me with my brother, the two of them leaving eggs in my boots or throwing me into one of the pools, and it's many years since she died." Gently drawing her back to the subject at hand, he said, "you said that your brother hated Lady Stark?"

"Yes, and I can't imagine why. Just because she saw him cry? She was always kind, though, and she was the one who went to find help for him, besides! If she hadn't been to see who _knows_ what might have happened to him? A lizard-lion might have eaten him before anyone found him!" It did not escape him that Myrcella sounded more indignant on Sansa's behalf than distressed by the prospect of a lizard-lion devouring her brother. He could not blame her.

"Indeed," Doran murmured. "Do you know how Lady Stark felt about him?"

"She said she loved him, and she was always happy to be with him, at least before her lord father died. Then she always seemed sad. It was very sad when my father the King died, too, but I don't think I was as sad as she was. But, then, she _saw_ him die, and that would be much more horrid, wouldn't it?"

Not for the first time, Doran said a silent prayer to the Mother and Father Above that his son would one day have a wife with such good sense, and such a good heart besides. To Myrcella, however, he only offered another quiet agreement. Myrcella nodded, and seemed to need a moment to consider this all a little more, which he was quite happy to give to her. At last, she continued.

"Even though she was sad, though, she was still very kind to Tommen and me. Before I left, my uncle Tyrion said to Mother that perhaps they ought to send her with me to Dorne. I should have liked that very much. She was still supposed to marry Joffrey then, and I _was_ glad that she was going to be my sister, but I was sorry to leave her. Now she's married to my favorite of all my uncles, so she's my aunt, and that's nice too. But she's still all the way off in King's Landing. It's much nicer here, I think. Uncle Tyrion is funny, though, and very kind, so perhaps she's happier now that they're married. But if she had come with me, then when Joffrey married Margaery, she could have married Trystane's brother, so then she'd be my sister, _and_ she'd be here, and _that_ would be best of all. Is Prince Quentyn as nice as Trystane and Princess Arianne are?"

"He is," Doran said, smiling again.

"She's not nearly as old as my uncle, though, he's _very_ old." Myrcella said thoughtfully, and Doran, who had been a man grown when Tyrion Lannister was born, struggled not to laugh. "If he dies before her, perhaps she could still marry your other son."

"Perhaps," Doran agreed. He did not mention that, depending on how the trial went, Lady Stark might be a widow much sooner than Myrcella seemed to think (to say nothing of his elder son's current task to find a bride). Who knew? Young as she was, and sheltered from the worst of life, Myrcella had nonetheless shown herself to be a good judge of character. He did not know Sansa Stark, but she had impressed his brother well enough, so she must be at least passing clever. If both she and Lady Stark were convinced of the Imp's innocence, well, then, perhaps he _was_ innocent, and could be proven so besides. "As I said, you know, I have had a letter from Prince Oberyn. That's why I wished to ask you about Sansa Stark. You see, my brother found her after the wedding feast. With your uncle, her husband, arrested, my brother was not sure what might become of her, so she is now established in his own household in King's Landing, rather than staying at the Red Keep."

The mention of her uncle's arrest did not seem to trouble her; he envied her faith in the justice of the world. Besides, Myrcella seemed genuinely delighted by the news of Sansa Stark's current whereabouts — her eyes shone, and she gave him a true smile. "Oh, how lovely. Prince Oberyn and Lady Sand were very kind to me. They'll be kind to her, too, won't they?"

"They will," Doran confirmed, smiling. "You have my word on that. She has not been there long, of course, but he tells me that they are already quite fond of her. I am still thinking on what my reply to my brother will be, but I thought perhaps you might like to write a short note to Lady Sansa, to send along with it."

"Yes," Myrcella said. "What a good idea. Do you think she will be able to come to Dorne? Her and uncle Tyrion?"

"I don't know yet, but from what you have told me, I would very much like to meet her."

"Yes, you'll like her," Myrcella said, quite decidedly. "So will Trystane. Does Prince Oberyn have a singer? Lady Sansa likes music."

"I do not believe he does, but I shall certainly tell him of your advice on that score," Doran promised.

She nodded, and told him a little more about Lady Sansa, including one very interesting story of her brother's nameday tourney, when her uncle had first returned to King's Landing. It seemed that Tommen had fallen from his pony. Myrcella herself had run to her little brother to see to him, and she thought that Lady Sansa wanted to do the same, but the King had not given her leave. "Then she told him he ought to tell Tommen how well he rode. And he _did_ , even if he did fall off. Everyone falls off now and again, don't they? And then he got back on and rode again, and that was very brave of him. Even the Hound said so." A few more such tales, and then she begged his leave to go, and write her note.

He still was not quite certain what he would tell his brother, but he supposed that did not really matter — Oberyn would do what he would, whatever Doran told him. In truth, too, he trusted his brother; he would never have sent him to King's Landing if he could not rely upon him. Certainly, they had not prepared for something like _this_ , but still, he thought that Oberyn, with Ellaria to steady him, had a decent chance of coming out with something like success.

In the end, he dashed off only a few lines of his own, and these were not particularly specific, in truth. He mentioned the fool — _only one of our friends in King's Landing mentioned his disappearance, and then with apologies, as it was likely nothing, but it sounds worth pursuing, if you can find him_ — and what other general pieces of advice he could come up with, knowing as little as he did, and being, at best, near a week's raven flight away. He added the little princess's note when she gave it to him solemnly, after he promised that he would not peek. "It is _terribly_ impolite to read a lady's correspondence," she informed him.

She was quite right, he told her, and gave his word that he would not do so. Then it was all done, and not even time for supper.

As he lay in his bed that night, trying in vain to find sleep, he reflected that he did not know if he had ever _anticipated_ news from King's Landing before. It was a curious thing indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ellaria**

At some point in his preparations and investigations, her prince engaged a dressmaker, who arrived on the fifth day after the wedding feast.

Sansa did not seem particularly happy to learn that she was to have new clothes — indeed, she seemed quite shaken. She managed to endure several measurements, and a little discussion of what might suit, but she did not say much to start with, and only grew more silent as the conversation continued. Ellaria, beginning to be practiced in reading her moods, realized that she was near to panicking, and cut the business short, escorting her into the garden.

Oberyn had followed when he caught Ellaria's eye from his solar, but before Sansa could notice him approaching on the path, she shook her head, and, thank the gods, he kept his silence, falling back a little and settling on a bench across the little clearing from the edge of the fountain where the ladies sat. Sansa did not seem to _fear_ Oberyn, really, but they had found that coaxing things out of her came more easily together, with Ellaria leading. Perhaps because she was a woman, or because she was a bastard, or, as Ellaria had told Oberyn when they fell asleep one evening, perhaps Sansa found her more calming simply because she knew how to sit still for more than half a minute at a time.

("That," Oberyn responded, "is only because she has never seen you after lovemaking." She hit him with a pillow in answer, and then he pulled her atop him, and they proceeded to spend the next quarter-hour quite merrily indeed.)

Ellaria called for wine for all of them, as much to give Oberyn something to do rather than sit and watch as from any thirst. It gave him an excuse, besides, to press a cup into Sansa's hands, and to linger at least a little, his fingers on hers. At last, she dared a look up, and he gave her a soft smile before giving the other cup he held to Ellaria and retreating graciously.

"I'm sorry, my lady, my prince," Sansa said. She was looking down at her cup, which was just as well, so she could not see how Oberyn grimaced at the courtesies. They saddened Ellaria to hear too, having seen how Sansa fell behind them when feeling frightened or grieved, but she was always better at schooling her face than her prince.

Still, Sansa did not tense too much, or pull away, when Ellaria put an arm around her shoulders. "No apologies are necessary, for either of us," she murmured, and, before she realized what she was doing, she pressed a soft kiss to Sansa's temple.

Sansa said nothing for a long moment, but she did not pull away, either, and finally, Ellaria thought she felt her relax, just the tiniest bit. That did her more good than anything else might have, reassured her more than any words. She feared that doing it again might be too much, though, and took a sip of her wine instead, contented herself with tightening the arm around her shoulders just a little, just enough, she hoped, to reassure her.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," she whispered, so low that she did not think even Oberyn would hear over the noise of the fountain. "Heavens, my prince _will_ be jealous now. As if it weren't enough that I made you laugh before he did, now I'm the first to kiss you."

It was a risky thing to say, and if this were even a few days ago she wouldn't have said something with such a risk of shocking her, but she wouldn't have risked the kiss then, either. She was rewarded when Sansa burst out laughing, a pure, sweet sound, and if she sniffled a little at the end of it, none of them said anything. Ellaria caught a glimpse of Oberyn's face, and nearly started laughing herself, even as her heart swelled with affection. The mingled relief, and pleasure, not to mention the lingering concern and sorrow, made him look every bit the besotted fool. _If I did not know him better, I'd imagine he'd be happy to see that Tyrion Lannister loses his head, innocence be damned, so long as Sansa is widowed,_ she thought, and gave him a fond smile before turning her attention back to the maiden herself.

"Truly," Sansa said, after a long drink of wine, "I — it's silly. I'm sorry. I only — it's been so long since I had a new dress, except — "

She broke off again, and took a deep breath. Ellaria said nothing, only waited for her to gather herself.

"One day, weeks ago, the Queen said I was to have a new gown. I was — it was stupid, I should have realized...it wasn't until the day it was finished that — that was the day she made me — and I was too stupid to figure it out until she brought out the maiden's cloak and took me to the sept," she finished, and Ellaria sighed with sudden understanding. "After — after that, the first new gown I had was the one I wore to the feast," she added.

"Ah," Ellaria said. "Yes, my dear, those seem to me very good reasons to be a little nervous of the sudden appearance of dressmakers."

"I also...I haven't anything to pay you back with," Sansa said in a sudden rush, her face red. "I — I'm sorry," she said immediately after. "That's — you've only — I know if you meant to — if you expected — I _know_ that it's only your own great generosity, I do, truly, and I pray you will forgive me, but — "

"But Stark pride runs deep," Oberyn said. His voice was soft, and Ellaria knew he was not insulted (which, she supposed, was why Sansa was so hesitant to explain this second reason for her fearfulness). But Sansa did not know him so well, and did not have time to hide the apprehension on her face when she looked up again. Ellaria tried to reassure her without speaking, briefly tightening the arm about her shoulders again, just a little. Thankfully, Oberyn smiled, and continued. "Near as deep as Martell pride, I think."

"'Unbowed, unbent, unbroken,'" Sansa murmured. "You didn't bend the knee. That's why you're still princes, not lords, like the Starks."

"Stories of your wedding reached us in Dorne. _You_ did not bend the knee, either, as I recall."

Sansa ducked her head again, and spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. Oberyn continued, pointing out, "And, too, some would say you are a princess. Indeed, by Dornish law, they might even say that you are the Queen in the North."

Sansa paled a little at that, and took a nervous sip from her cup. Ellaria hugged her a little closer to reassure her. Mercifully, Oberyn understood Ellaria's look, and did not press her further. "'Tis no treason to say such things," Ellaria said gently, suspecting she knew the shape of Sansa's fear. "My prince only remarks on what _might_ , theoretically, by some reckoning, be true. There is no treason in saying that it might rain tomorrow, is there?"

"I — I suppose not," Sansa said carefully.

"Nor," Oberyn put in, his voice only loud enough for them to hear him, and then only because he leaned in towards them, "in saying that some theoretical Dornish persons _might_ have less interest in what the Lannisters consider treason than the Lannisters have convinced themselves they have."

"At any rate," Ellaria said, not wanting to dwell on this for the nonce — the lady had been upset enough without adding another fear on top, to say nothing of this perhaps not being the place to discuss even what little _she_ knew of the princes' plans — "my lady, I quite understand your reaction, and I apologize. We should at least have given you more warning. If you prefer, Zia and I can find a few new girls for the work, and simply order the fabrics ourselves. Zia, or one of the other girls, can take your measurements well enough."

"No," Sansa said, and Ellaria was pleased to see that some color had returned to her face. Her muscles beneath Ellaria's fingers did not feel quite so tense as they had. "No, I thank you, my — I thank you," she said, and Ellaria smiled, and pressed her shoulder once more. "I was only startled. Please forgive me — it was rude of me to suggest that you — "

"It was no such thing," Oberyn said, quietly, but firmly. At once, he was every bit the prince, and every bit the sweet, warm man she loved. "You have learned, at great pain to yourself, over the course of two years, to search every apple for a worm. That is not a habit unlearned in a week. Your fear is no crime; the crime is that you were taught it."

Ellaria wanted very much to kiss him then. But she would not leave Sansa, and she did not think Oberyn would thank her for doing so, either, so she contented herself with smiling at him, and hoping that he could read her love in the look.

* * *

**Oberyn**

Tonight would make seven days since Joffrey Baratheon's death. Oberyn had kept busy, trying quietly to find some word of the fool Dontos, hashing out the business of the trial with Mace Oberyn and Tywin Lannister...and, very carefully, letting word of Lady Stark's place as an honored guest in his household trickle out among such of the Martell's bannermen who had accompanied him to the city — along with word of his vow to her, and the scars she bore which had only steeled him in his resolution.

Oh, he had not kept it a secret that he had her. Answering that very first summons the second morning after the wedding, when Tywin Lannister said that the girl had vanished, Oberyn had been more than happy to correct him, and inform him that she was in Martell keeping. He did not offer much more detail, pointing out only that, his sister having been spurned for a Stark lady, House Martell had as much right to any Stark hostage as House Lannister.

To be sure, there was no small pleasure in thumbing his nose at the Lannisters, and if they assumed that the lady would be as ill-treated under his roof as she had been under theirs, that said more of them than him. And it was likely safer, in the earliest days at least, to simply let them assume that she was more prisoner than guest.

Still, though, it chafed at him. No — more than that. It shamed him. Ellaria comforted him well enough, but when, the day after claiming her as hostage, he had mused that perhaps he ought to confess it to Sansa, she had grown almost sharp with him. "It would be for your sake, lightening your own burden by adding to hers. However much you might assure her that we do not see it that way, you will put the thought into her head, and that will undo all we have accomplished in putting her at her ease — which is little enough."

She was right, of course, but the deception still rankled. Fortunately, he did not have to bear it long before a solution presented itself.

The next morning, he passed by the house's baths on his way to the stable. He could hear splashing, and voices, Zia's and Ellaria's and Lady Sansa's, and a few others besides — one of Ser Daemon's Allyrion half-sisters, he thought, and another maid or two — and when he realized they were singing, he lingered just a little. He could not make out the exact words, but he knew the tune, and realized that the other women were teaching Sansa some Rhoynish children's song the Orphans had brought with them, about a mischievous young turtle. It was a favorite in the Gardens for its wordplay, the way it tricked and tripped and tickled the tongue...and, of course, for the great _splash_ at the end, as the fish the little turtle saved flopped out of the cruel fisherman's boat and back into the water.

In the Gardens, it was customary to mark the fish's escape with a leap into the pools (making, of course, as great a splash as possible), but when their daughters were babes, Ellaria had contented herself with slapping the water in the bath. He supposed, since there was no flood beneath the door, that was what she had done here, too, and then all of them collapsed into giggles. He nearly lost his breath when he heard Lady Sansa's laughter — and though he had heard it so rarely, somehow, he knew which of all the voices was hers, just as he did Ellaria's — for something wrung at his heart at the sound, and he listened, entranced, as they led her through the song again.

Eventually, he thought, _she has a good memory for it; already, she's near as sure of it as ladies who've sung this since childhood, and she's only heard it two — three —_ it was then that he realized they had gone through it twice more while he lingered, awestruck. If he didn't get to the stables soon, Daemon would likely come searching, and it would hardly do for him to find his prince skulking around the baths like some oversexed boy.

But the moment he had overheard stayed with him throughout the day, and not for the way it made him hunger for Ellaria. Well, not _only_ for that.

The warm air, the sounds of water and playful song and laughter, the smell of lemon and orange oils used to scent the water — _perhaps Doran's way of going about things has something to recommend it after all,_ he thought, smiling, and that, of course, was when the idea of simply letting the truth get out as it would came to him. _Thank you, brother,_ he thought, for it was, of course, what Doran would do.

He called on Lady Jordayne later that very day, and then Lord Dalt, and each of his other lords and ladies in turn. In the course of these visits, too, he learned the names of some of the finest — and best-connected, which also, of course, meant strategically talkative — dressmakers in the city; one of these was summoned with great fanfare to the household of the Prince of Dorne, and he told the cook to prepare a feast for all his company for some days hence. "Nothing too grand, just something a little finer than usual."

And so, slowly but surely, over the course of the days, the truth of Lady Stark's status among the Dornish party spread.

Thus far, there had been no summons from the Keep about the matter, no demand that he return Sansa Stark to the Lannisters, nor even that he answer for not doing so immediately, but he had another meeting with the other judges tomorrow, and he was cautiously optimistic that he would get some more satisfying reaction then. Not least because this time, along with Daemon Sand, Ellaria and Zia would accompany him, to arrange the removal of Sansa Stark's things from her former quarters.

He was not disappointed.

 

They were discussing her testimony, he and Lord Tywin and the little queen's father, when the other queen burst in, raging as fiercely as all the seven hells. _This will make things far more interesting,_ Oberyn thought, but said nothing, only stood with Tyrell and bowed in her direction.

Lord Tywin, he noticed, did not rise, only looked at the white cloak close on his daughter's heels. "Ser Meryn, is aught amiss with my guards?"

"No, my lord," Trant said, blinking. "They're just outside, you can see for yourself." He gestured to Lannister guards at the threshold.

"I do," he said. "Perhaps they have gone deaf, then, for I cannot imagine why they should have disregarded my order that we be left to speak in peace."

"The snake's _guest!_ " Cersei's emerald eyes were like wildfire. "His _honored guest!_ She walks free, my son's murderer, and it is _his_ doing!" Apparently concerned that there remained any doubt to which snake she referred, she pointed one of her slim white fingers at Oberyn.

"Why, your grace," Oberyn answered, "as I recall, you informed the court at the feast that the Imp was your son's murderer. Am I mistaken, or is he yet shut up in one of the Keep's many towers?"

She did not give her father time to answer. "Do not toy with me, Martell. Why did you not inform us at once that you had found her?"

"He did," Lord Tywin said, and Cersei spun from Oberyn to stare at her father. "He told myself and Lord Tyrell when first we met to prepare for Tyrion's trial. We have taken it into account in our planning."

"And you kept this from me? You allow him to shelter her?" Something else her father had said struck her then. " _Tyrion's_ trial? I hope you only say that because you intend for her to be tried separately once his vile head is struck from his shoulders. Gods be good, Father, have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Cersei — " Tywin began, but Oberyn thought this a fine opportunity, and seized it, despite (well, all right, perhaps _because_ of it) knowing as he did that his brother would give him the most withering look for it, were he here.

"I confess, it came as a surprise to me as well, Your Grace," he said, taking his seat again at last and refilling his glass. "But, then, Ser Amory Lorch is dead, and your father has told me that _he_ is the one he sends to drag helpless girls from their beds."

 _That_ silenced both the queen and her father. And nearly caused Mace Tyrell to choke on his own wine, besides.

Lord Tywin gazed at Oberyn for some moments. The castle might have fallen down atop them while Oberyn gazed back over the rim of his cup. _Say something,_ he thought, _please, Lannister, say something, give me a reason to open your throat._

He would not know how long each of them might have waited for the other to blink, however, for the queen spoke again. " _You_ were informed, Father? Why was _I_ not informed? We were told that she was a hostage, and that was bad enough, but now I learn from the guards that Martell's squire and his — _lady_ — " the distaste in her voice was hard to miss — "are here to oversee the removal of their _honored guest's_ effects. Why is the girl not in the tower alongside her wretched husband? Who knows, in her giddiness over their crime, she may finally let him bed her. Perhaps he'll finally get that babe in her belly. Why you would want two traitors' spawn holding Winterfell I can't imagine, but — "

"Your Grace," Tyrell began, chidingly, but none of them paid him any mind.

"You were not informed," Lord Tywin said, "because, as you are not a judge, it was not necessary that you _be_ informed. As for why she is not with Tyrion, Prince Oberyn has Lady Sansa quite well guarded. There is no risk of her fleeing."

"Again, you mean?" Cersei asked. "As she fled the night my son was murdered? On the Imp's orders, I expect."

"There were a thousand people in the throne room, and most of them fled. Did every one of them do the deed?" Oberyn asked. "Mine own paramour bade us leave, she was so distressed, yet you have not accused _us_ of the murder. If there was more to Lady Stark's flight than a gently-bred girl, one who has seen enough of death already, overcome by horror at what she had witnessed, perhaps it was because she feared someone would accuse her. Wisely so, it seems."

Cersei let out a bark of a laugh. "You give the girl a great deal of credit. Sansa Stark's head is as empty as Ser Meryn's shield. If she thought she might be accused, it can only be because she knew she bore some guilt in the deed."

"Well, with that possibility discarded, I expect you mean to say that you agree with me that she likely shared the terror of those hundreds of others who fled the throne room. For I cannot imagine," Oberyn continued, noticing as if from a distance that his knuckles about his glass were white, "that you think I would sit here and suffer such insults to a lady under the protection of the Prince of Dorne."

"Talking of your _lady_ , my prince," she said, turning fully to face him, those wildfire eyes narrowing, "and your own flight, for that matter, I am reminded that Maester Pycelle believes the poison was a very rare one, and little-known, at that. Had he not also told me that my brother has stolen from his stores before, I might be a good deal more concerned how he had come by such."

It was meant to frighten him, of course, but Oberyn had to bite back laughter at the naked fury on her father's face, and the strangled sounds that Mace Tyrell made, when she said that.

" _Enough,_ Cersei," Tywin said, raising his voice for the first time. "You disgrace yourself. My prince, Lord Tyrell, I am sure you will forgive a mother, overwrought with grief, for her intrusion on our business."

The Queen started as if she had been slapped, and her lovely face went red as she turned away from Oberyn. " _Your_ business?" she repeated, staring at her father. "This _business_ is the murder of my son — my _king_ , and yours as well, Father, and yours, Tyrell — " Mace Tyrell, who had been busying himself with studying the tapestry on the far wall, forgot himself, and looked at her for a moment, then quickly away again as she wheeled on Oberyn — "and even _yours_ , whatever you Dornishmen might — "

"Ser Meryn," her father said, as if she had never spoken, "my daughter is weary. See her back to her chambers, and send to Maester Pycelle for some dreamwine. Once it arrives, see that she takes it promptly."

"I am the _queen_ ," Cersei snarled, but her father never so much as glanced at her. Oberyn found, for one brief, strange moment, that he pitied her. _Of course she is a monster,_ he thought to himself. _But with such a father, what chance had she at becoming aught else?_

"She raises an important point, my lord," Oberyn said, and Cersei looked near as startled as she had at her father's interruption. Mace Tyrell, too, was gaping at him, but Lord Tywin's expression was as flat as ever. He continued, " _Does_ Lady Stark stand accused? Will she be tried after her lord husband? As her guardian, for the time being, I have a right to know." So far, he understood, the only real case for her guilt was that she had unwittingly carried the weapon, and that both she and the Imp had hated Joffrey. But he must have a definite answer, and now was as good a time as any.

"She does not stand accused," Lannister said, his eyes narrowing. He paused just enough for a _yet_ to hang in the air before continuing. "But the lady has been a ward of the crown since her father's death, and her lord husband, a Lannister, has spread his cloak of protection about her. This is the first I have heard of her having another guardian."

 _Gods, it should have been Doran who came,_ Oberyn thought briefly. _I was not made for this dance._ Hopefully they would only be grateful if he did not make too much of how close the Queen had come a few moments ago to accusing _him_. "I took her into my safekeeping, and as I said at our first meeting, House Martell has at least as strong a claim to any Stark hostage as House Lannister." He began as carefully as he knew he ought, but could not keep it up as he continued. "But let us be frank — we all know that the marriage is barely that. My maester called for a septa to examine Lady Stark when he was seeing to the monstrous scars the late king had inflicted on her — "

Ser Meryn had the good grace to redden, at least, and look away, but Cersei only scoffed. "Joff never touched her," she said, "I told him more than once that a king must not strike his lady wife. If she has told you — "

"But she was _not_ his wife," Oberyn spat. He was too quick about it, as always, but his mouth was full of something hot and bitter, something that made him feel half-drunk, something whose taste he had nearly forgotten, for it was some seventeen years since he tasted it fresh. "You are right, though, Your Grace, I misspoke. The king only had his _guards_ beat her instead. That makes all the difference, does it not, Ser Meryn? 'Tis far more meet that a grown man should beat a helpless maid than that the king should do so, yes?"

"I am sworn to obey the king," was all the man said, but he did not look up from his fine white boots.

"Enough," Lord Tywin said. "Ser Meryn, I gave you an order some minutes ago, it seems to me. Why have you not seen to it yet?"

" _Do not touch me!_ " Cersei hissed, as the knight reached for her. There was something desperate and awful in her voice, and once again, Oberyn found himself feeling the strangest flicker of pity for the woman. _If one of my girls had drunk the Strangler at her wedding dinner,_ he thought, _my clothes would be soaked in blood by now. But she has no knowledge of blades or poisons, only ruling, and little enough knowledge of that._

"My lord," Mace Tyrell ventured at last, and his voice was only a little thinner, his face only a little less red, than usual. "I do not see that it is so very wrong for my daughter's good-mother to stay with us."

The look that Cersei gave him was only a little less venomous than that she had given Oberyn himself. _So much for gratitude,_ Oberyn thought, and if his mouth did not quite form a smile, at least he felt a little less adrift on his sea of anger. "As I was saying," he put in, taking another sip from his cup, "the girl remains a maid. If her lord husband _is_ innocent, the marriage can be easily undone. And if we should decide against him, and make him even shorter than he is, or if he should confess and take the black — "

"Ah," the Queen Regent said, with a little smirk.

Oberyn did not allow himself to be distracted, to let her make further insinuations. "Whatever Tyrion Lannister's fate, there is a good chance Lady Sansa will find herself unmarried before the month is out. She will remain in my household because — well, you know, it is an oddity of my family that we are rather cautious of leaving any young lady in Lannister hands, much less one who already bears their scars."

"A very pretty excuse," the Queen Regent said, her eyes narrowing. "While we are on the subject, tell me, I pray, does your family's concern for young ladies' welfare extend to young ladies who are Lannisters themselves? Or will you content yourself with simply poisoning my daughter's mind against her family, rather than poisoning — "

She did not finish. Lord Tywin had risen at last, and crossed the chamber to his daughter. Before she could get the accusation out, Cersei's father struck her across the face with the back of his hand.

"Gods be good," Mace said, redder than ever. "My lord — that is — "

"I find I quite agree with Lord Tyrell, miracle of miracles," Oberyn said. His glass was only half empty, but he stood anyway, for no wine could wash that hot bitter taste out of his mouth. Much as he loathed Lord Tywin's daughter, there was little satisfaction in the display, no more than in the sight of a ferocious dog being kicked by its master — for after all, it is the master who bears the blame for the dog's savagery to begin with.

The only thing like comfort was the knowledge that he had the upper hand now; Lord Tywin had no room to deny him after his daughter had twice come so close to threatening their fragile peace with Dorne with accusations against Oberyn. _You see, brother,_ he thought grimly, _I can get results after a fashion._ "As I said earlier, my lords, Lady Stark may certainly stand as witness for the Imp. If you mean to make some accusation against her, however, I must warn you now that while I draw breath, she will never enter the Red Keep again but that she wills it. She may be questioned in my household, and I will tell you now that for each guard you bring, be his cloak white or gold or red, she will have two of mine own closer to her."

Some in Essos said that jade was a living stone, that it grew brighter and richer with warmth and touch. Oberyn could well believe it. Where his daughter's eyes were wildfire, Tywin Lannister's were dead jade, pale and hard and cold. "She will be questioned three days hence, then," was all he said, "on the first day of the trial."

 _Yes_ , Oberyn thought, _that will be close, but it ought to be time enough._ But all he did was nod, and maneuver past Lannister on his way out. He saw that Queen Cersei was watching him go, her hand still on the cheek her father had struck.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, sorry about the long interval -- I ran into some issues around organizing this and the next few chapters, and they took me some time to untangle. The good news is, I think I've got the next couple of chapters pretty well sorted out, so the delay before the next chapter shouldn't be as long this time.

**Sansa**

Prince Oberyn returned from the Keep only briefly, but he did, at least, take time to visit with them before he departed again. When he entered the ladies' solar — she had never felt comfortable calling it _hers_ , but Ellaria always did, and it would be horribly rude to continue calling it Ellaria's in contradiction; eventually, one of the servants had simplified the matter by calling it "m'lady's solar", and the name, an acceptable compromise for all concerned, stuck — he was dressed downright drably. She glimpsed Ser Daemon in the hall, and he, too, was similarly clad.

"I have some business newly arisen," the prince said, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Some further preparations, purchases, to make."

"Be at ease, my lady," he said, though Sansa did not think she had shown at all how much she had tensed at what he said. Ellaria could read her moods quite well, which was unsettling enough (though of course she tried her best not to let her see that), but at least she thought that Oberyn was not much more astute than any other man. But his eyes softened a little, as he went on, "'Tis nothing you need worry about. I owe you both an apology, in truth; talking with Tywin Lannister always puts me in a foul humor anyway, but today was uglier than usual. I have good news, though, and I did not think either of you would thank me for waiting until my mood improved to deliver it. First, you will stand as a witness for the Imp, and may lend your voice to his defense. But the interview will take place here — only we judges and the Imp himself will be in attendance, rather than the entirety of the court — and, as I told the Lord Hand, between you and every guard he brings with him will stand two of mine own. I swore to him, and I swear to you now, that so long as I draw breath, you will never again enter the Red Keep but that you wish it."

It was funny that he should mention breath, Sansa thought, for all of a sudden she felt as if all the breath had been sucked from her. _This is some dream,_ she told herself. _Only some sweet dream. But oh, you know that you are dreaming, so enjoy it, savor every last bit of it._ "Never," she repeated, tasting the word, trying to wrap her mind around it.

Distantly, she heard Ellaria prompt, "You said first, my love?"

"Second," Prince Oberyn continued, "you will, most certainly, not stand accused yourself."

Since he had said 'two of mine own' everything had seemed to go quiet, with a low whistling noise in her ears, as the wind might make around the walls of Winterfell during some particularly bad storm. Still, dimly, she heard what he had said, but she could not speak. She had no words, she had only the wolf inside of her, racing through the godswood and howling for sheer delight at being alive.

She could not think at all, for — a minute? Three? A hundred? It must only have been a moment or two, though, for then she was aware, distantly, of Ellaria wrapping her up in an embrace, and then, at last, a thought came to her, a memory, clear as sunrise. _He vowed that they would never have me again. "I swear, by the old gods and the new, that so long as I draw breath they shall not take you unwilling from my protection." That's what he said, he promised, he vowed it by all the gods, and he did it,_ he did it, _he kept his word, he is keeping it even now._

Everything snapped back into clarity then, and she realized she was laughing, her arms wrapped as tightly around Ellaria as Ellaria's were around her. They had stood up, at some point, she noticed, and something about that was quite funny, so that she was breathless with laughter when Ellaria finally let her go.

Ellaria crossed the room, then, to Oberyn, and she had not thought it was possible for her to hold someone more tightly than she had Sansa just a moment ago, but there she was. But then, Sansa noted, near delirious with relief and wonder, she hadn't kissed Sansa the way she was kissing Oberyn, either. The thought of that was funny, as well, and Sansa found that she had to sit down again, she was laughing so hard. She was weeping with laughter, now, she realized, burying her head in her hands — and then, even as she smiled, she wasn't laughing anymore, only weeping.

Oh, what was wrong with her? This was good, this was wonderful, this was a _miracle_.

"Sansa?" she heard, and, with a deep, trembling breath, she looked up. Prince Oberyn had crossed the room towards her, but Ellaria stood behind him, pulling gently at his hand twined with her own.

"She is alright, my love," Ellaria said, softly. "She only needs some time, I think." Her warm eyes smiled at Sansa; there was sorrow there, but mostly she was only smiling, gentle and so, so painfully kind.

Sansa sucked in another breath, tried to dash her tears away. "It — it is as she says, my pr — it is as she says." For she realized, suddenly, that for the first time, he had used only her name. Not _Lady Stark_ or _Lady Sansa_ or _my lady_ , only _Sansa_. It would not do to think on that, though. "Forgive me, please, I'm quite well, truly. 'Tis poor payment for — for everything." For where could she even begin to thank them?

All the hardness that had been on the prince's face when he first came to them had melted away in the past few minutes. He had released Ellaria's hand, she realized, as he knelt before her; he must have, for both his hands were holding her, one on each of her shoulders. Sansa noticed then that she was still weeping — so strange, that she should feel so happy, that she should not feel she was weeping, and yet tears should continue to spill down her cheeks.

"I wish you would not weep, Sansa," Oberyn murmured, "but if it is not with pain or fear, then I can bear it."

And then he kissed her cheek, the very track of one of her tears. His lips were warm and a little rough, but still so gentle, and she heard herself sigh before she quite knew that she did it. She couldn't help herself then; even as she blushed with the knowledge that _the prince of Dorne just kissed me!_ she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him as fiercely as she had Ellaria. He laughed a little as she did, but it was not mocking, only sweet and warm and low, as if he were only pleasantly surprised, as if he had not thought to expect anything half so nice, and then he answered in kind, embracing her as well.

"Thank you," she managed to whisper, as he held her tightly to him, and she held him tightly to her, so that she could not, if someone asked, have said which of them was really holding the other. "Thank you," she repeated. They seemed like such weak words, but she could not think of any others.

She could not say how long they stayed like that, but when she opened her eyes — when had she closed them? — she saw that Ellaria was beaming at them both, her eyes glittering a little, her clasped hands pressed to her breast, her head tilted slightly as if she were deep in thought. The sight made Sansa blush again, a little, but she couldn't help smiling back, even as she loosened her arms a little.

"Forgive me, my prince," she said at last. Weeping had stuffed her nose up, and her voice was all thick and trembly, but still, she could not stop smiling. "You said you had more business to attend to, and you can hardly do it with me clinging to you."

"I don't know," he said, as if in thought. He had not loosened his grip on her at all, but she found that she didn't mind. _He smells very nice,_ she thought giddily, _a bit like Ellaria — there is some spice they both smell of a little, I think — but different, too._ "You would be surprised what I could do while carrying one of my girls around. But, then, you are rather larger than the littler ones, and the elder ones long ago stopped tolerating such foolishness from me, so I have not tried it with one closer to your size."

She laughed again at that, and heard him laugh a little, too, and Ellaria, who had come back over to the chairs where they had been sitting, besides. Everything looked different, somehow, as if the light were a little brighter, or the edges to everything were a little clearer.

Another moment, another soft kiss to her cheek, and then he released her. Was she imagining that he was slow to do it, almost reluctant? _If he is, it is only because he fears that you are hysterical enough to faint dead away,_ she chided herself, but even the voice that said such things sounded gentler, at this moment, than it usually did. It was less like Queen Cersei or Joffrey sneering at her and more like Ellaria, the sweet way she teased Oberyn sometimes, when it was only the three of them together, with nothing but fondness in her voice.

"Still, though," the prince continued, "my errands will take me to a few places I would not have you two visit. Some of our stores are low on ingredients, and though Maester Raymun would send a servant, Ellaria can tell you that I never like to leave such things to others."

Sansa glanced over at Ellaria, who had taken her seat again, but she was gazing at Oberyn, thoughtful. "Indeed," was all she said, though, and then she seemed to notice Sansa's eyes upon her and beamed once more. "Well, my dear, I think this calls for a celebration, don't you?"

What she meant by that, it turned out, was a feast, for tomorrow night. Ellaria told her of it as they sat down to supper in the gardens, and the word made Sansa's stomach turn over. She pushed her plate away, glad that she hadn't eaten too much just yet. "A feast?" she repeated, and tried not to cringe at the tremor in her voice.

Ellaria noticed it, though, and looked up from her cup, frowning a little, and Sansa tried to compose herself. _You used to love them,_ she said to herself. _And they're hardly going to invite Cersei Lannister. What are you so afraid of, you silly girl?_

Before she could apologize, though, Ellaria smiled at her, and put her cup down to pat Sansa's hand. "Forgive me, my lady; after what happened at the last feast you attended, 'tis hardly surprising that you should find the prospect unsettling. You must think me a beast for not considering that to begin with!"

It was only a joke, Sansa knew, but still, she felt she ought to disagree. "Of course not," she said quickly. "I'm only being stupid."

"I have never known you to be anything of the sort, sweetling," Ellaria said, with the same matter-of-fact warmth as ever. She did not give Sansa time to disagree, only patted her hand once more and then took her cup back up. Strangely, that made Sansa believe it as she might not have had the lady made much of it. "Well," she continued, "it shames me to admit this, but in truth, calling it a feast is a good deal too generous. We haven't time for many grand preparations, after all. But Oberyn wished to do _something_ to honor you once you'd settled in, and a poor welcome will still be better than none, so a merry supper with our host seemed just the thing. And with the news today — well, I think a bit of merriment is quite in order. As much as we can manage, at any rate. A few more courses than usual, and Ser Arron Qorgyle brought a singer with him and has said he will loan him to us for the night, and I think we might even scrape together enough musicians for some dancing. Do you like to dance, Sansa?"

"I do, my lady," Sansa said, and she managed, this time, to smile. "Although I do not think I have ever learned any Dornish dances."

"Well, then, this will be a fine opportunity for it," Ellaria said, clapping her hands, and just like that, it was all settled.

Strangely, Sansa almost believed her that she should be be at ease. As supper went on, she found herself growing more resigned to the idea, and by the time the berries and cream were set before them, a part of her was looking forward to it. _It was good of Ellaria to tell me as early as possible,_ she thought, remembering that first visit from the dressmaker.

 _Besides,_ she thought, as she went to bed that night, _I would like to learn Dornish dances. Oh, it's been so long since I danced with anyone!_ Not since her wedding, and then only a little.

When she slept at last, she dreamed of a feast, bigger and grander than anything Ellaria had planned. It was in a hall like the Great Hall at Winterfell, only there was no roof, and the snow was warm and dry as it drifted down around the revelers, melting away before it could do more than kiss their hair. She was dancing with a man, and she knew every step, and only when she looked over and saw Ellaria watching from the dais, her dark eyes gleaming with delight, her hands clapping in time with the music, did Sansa realize she was dancing with Oberyn.

Then, suddenly, everyone else was gone from the hall, though the music still fluttered about them. Ellaria rose, and as she came around from the table, Lady came running through the hall to meet her. She laughed as the wolf raced in a joyful circle about her, and when she finally fell still, Ellaria reached out and scratched behind her ears.

"It has grown late, my dears," Ellaria said, looking up, as Lady licked her hand.

"It has," Oberyn agreed, though he did not let go of Sansa's hand as he walked over to his lady. It did not seem strange that she went with the two of them toward the doors. It seemed right, perfect. Lady was not troubled by it, either, but bounded past the three of them, racing for the godswood, adding her voice to the lively cries of her siblings.

* * *

**Ellaria**

Before they set off for the Keep that morning, Ellaria had asked Sansa if there were anything in particular she missed from her rooms in the Keep, any trinkets or books or items of clothing. She looked surprised by the question, as if she had never thought about it. That, it turned out, was because she hadn't.

"No jewels?" Ellaria had asked. "Nothing of the sort?"

"All of my jewels were taken from me when my father — when Joff became king," she said, her voice only wobbling a little. "Some of my dresses were left me, but they're too small by now. And — " She went a little pink then, and looked away from Ellaria, down at her plate, as she continued. "And with the things you have been so kind as to order for me, and the dresses you have given me yourself...I am more than sufficiently provided for."

Ellaria nodded, and did not embarrass her by saying anything further, only smiled and kissed her brow. She had been pleased to see that Sansa did not blush at that anymore.

The task might have easily been left to Zia, in truth, but Ellaria did not trust them to pay much attention to a maid, not even with Daemon at her side. Too, she hoped that she might have a chance to speak with one of Sansa's maids, perhaps even find the one who had dressed her hair. She, Zia, and Daemon were shown to Sansa's rooms by a crimson-cloaked guard, however, who shrugged when she inquired after the maids. "Her Grace wanted 'em as witnesses. What she did with them in the meantime, I couldn't say...m'lady," he added as a snide afterthought, his leer showing her how much he thought of that address.

"That will be all," Ser Daemon said coldly, and shut the door, none too gently, in the fellow's face.

As Sansa had said, though, the clothes themselves were not much to speak of, and what might still fit would not be much use to her for long besides. She would be for Sunspear before too long — likely as soon as the trial was done — and most of these, with their heavy fabrics and long sleeves, would be much too heavy for her in Dorne.

But in truth, they were also far too plain for a lady of her station. _They wanted to keep her in her place,_ Ellaria thought. And that was why, for all that there was hardly any point to it, that they might well discard the clothes as soon as they were delivered to the Martell household, she was not sorry that Oberyn was so intent on making a show of flaunting Sansa to the Lannisters. It was, after all, for that reason that she had really gone.

There were a few things she thought might be worth keeping, however, even among the clothes. Some linens and cloaks; the bodices were stiffer and tighter than those largely worn in Dorne, but it might take her time to grow more accustomed to Dornish fashions, so there was no harm in bringing them, too.

They had set out together, but she, Zia, and Daemon left the Keep ahead of her prince, having finished making what few arrangements were necessary quickly enough. Of anything that might have been Lady Catelyn's jewels, there had been no sign; her prince's squire said that he would ask about later, though neither of them was particularly optimistic. "One of our princes might press the issue," he added, "once things are more settled. They'll have a harder time ignoring Martells than two Sands and a maid."

"I suppose it's for my sake I want them, not hers," Ellaria admitted. It was a warm, bright day, too fine for the litter, and she rode beside him through the streets, a few of Oberyn's guards ahead and a few behind. "The lady seemed surprised that I had even thought of such a thing. I think she had nearly forgotten about it herself."

"I expect it's one of the smaller indignities she endured," Ser Daemon said.

"I expect you're right, ser," Zia said grimly.

Ellaria sighed, and after a few moments of thought, she said, "Ser Daemon, choose one or two of the guards — Zia, you and the others can continue back to the Prince's household, but we'll continue on to the market, I think." The Dornish had settled off the Street of Looms, and further along, there was a little market she and some of the others of the Dornish party had visited of an afternoon. Zia smiled, catching her eye, as she and the rest of the guards turned off into a narrower little road that would take them home.

 

As the evening was an ever-rarer pretty one, Ellaria had their supper laid out in the gardens. There was a little chill in the air, and, trying to set Sansa more at her ease after the talk of tomorrow night's feast unsettled her, Ellaria complained of it cheerfully. She proceeded thence to the capital's weather more generally. "Oh, 'tis hot enough in Dorne, certainly," she said, "but the damp here makes the heat seem to sit so much more heavily on one, don't you think?"

Sansa seemed uncertain, but this time, at least, her hesitation did not seem to be terror. "I hardly know," she said. "I never knew any kind of southron summer until we came here."

"Ah, of course," Ellaria said. "Well, I suppose it will not surprise you, but I much prefer Dorne's heat to this. There, at least, if one stays in the shade, one can get some relief. With such damp as they have here, one has no escape."

"Fitting," Sansa said. She barely spoke loud enough for Ellaria to hear her over the sound of the breeze in the leaves; indeed, were she any other lady, Ellaria might assume she had spoken without thinking.

But Lady Stark was more careful with her words than even the stingiest of merchants with his coins, her caution both painstaking and, for her hosts, painful to see. So Ellaria did not try to hide her chuckle, and instead refilled her cup and raised it in a salute to the lady's observation. Sansa ducked her head, her cheeks flaming red, but at last she chanced a look up again, and gifted Ellaria with one of her rare, lovely smiles.

They had nearly finished when Sansa ventured, at last, "The food was all so delicious."

It was a little thing, but it was rare that Sansa would speak up first, so Ellaria was quite happy to encourage her by engaging her on the topic. "The cook was a most pleasant surprise, as it happens — we feared we would find no one with any experience at Dornish cooking in this city, but Lady Blackmont's son has visited before, and recalled a few establishments where we might find someone passable." The establishments had been brothels, but Ellaria suspected that might be rather too much of a familiarity for Sansa just yet. "Would you tell me aught of Northern food?" she asked instead.

"It is rather plain, in comparison," Sansa said. "I — I confess I had feared the spices might be too strong when I arrived here, and you first invited me to dine with you."

She did not look at Ellaria as she spoke, and her voice had dropped. _Gods be good, she is afraid I will take offense._ "Many visitors are taken by surprise," she said, and patted the girl's hand once again. "But you will grow accustomed to it, I think; most do, in time. Princess Myrcella took to the spices right away — the hotter the better, for her. Myself, I am rather picky about such things, I admit. Some cooks use spices to hide that the other flavors are lacking. I cannot abide such laziness — I expect any cook in my household to manage food that would be delicious with no spice at all. A dish should be complemented by its spices, not overpowered."

"The first time I had pepper was in White Harbor," Sansa said, and with only a little coaxing, she told the story — her father had taken her three times, with her elder brother, while their next sister had only been twice. "Robb had never had it either. It made us sneeze. We thought that great fun, and begged Father to bring some back to Winterfell. My brother Bran was still a baby then, and if you sneezed at him, he would laugh as if it were the funniest thing anyone had ever done."

"Two of my daughters were the same," Ellaria said, smiling at the memory. "I had forgotten. Oberyn had a knack for these monstrous, theatrical sneezes — their sisters would play in the Water Gardens, and he would entertain the babes until they were strong enough for the water on their own. I expect you could hear him all the way in Sunspear, and the babes' laughter, too."

Sansa laughed at that, a true laugh, warm and bright. Her face was a little pink with the laughter and the wine, and the lanterns' light caught in her hair like the sun on the coppery scales of the guards' armor, and most lovely of all, for at least a few moments, the sorrow in her eyes seemed to have eased a little, mellowed to something that simply added depth to her beauty.

Just for a moment, Ellaria felt something strange in her heart, sweet and startling as a splash of cold water in the height of summer. _Oh,_ she thought. _Oh, dear, I can't tease Oberyn for being infatuated any longer, can I?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Sansa**

They dressed her in one of Ellaria's gowns for the feast. Or, at least, in a gown that Ellaria claimed was hers, though little work had had to be done to fit it to Sansa, and it was in a color — the light, bright blue of the first clear sky after a summer snow — that she had never seen Ellaria, who favored warmer, less delicate colors, wear. It was two pieces, really, the richer blue outer robe, which had long panels rather than a skirt, like the petals of a flower, and underneath, a gown that covered her more fully, of the same blue shade but lighter, so pale it was nearly white. Both parts were made of a silk soft as clouds, draped about her so lightly that if they did not kiss her skin when she moved she could have forgotten they were there. She felt as if she were a part of the sky, and when Zia fastened a belt around her waist such as the Dornish favored, silver, with a moonstone crescent surrounded by stars with blue topaz hearts, it seemed the only thing that kept her from flying away.

Ellaria joined them as another maid, Shella, was dressing her hair, and gave a low cry of delight. "Oh, my dear, how beautiful you look. Of course, you are always beautiful, but how that color suits you!"

"Thank you," Sansa said. "And you are even lovelier." She was dressed similarly to Sansa, but in an orange outer robe and a yellow inner one, with a ruby-studded copper belt. Even her inner garment was open lower than Sansa's, but it only made her look more elegant. Sansa doubted whether she would ever have the courage to wear something so womanly.

Ellaria smiled indulgently. "You are far too kind, my dear; next to you, I am a rather forgettable specimen. No, no — " as Sansa began to protest — "that is precisely the goal, after all; tonight is meant to honor you. But I suppose we can agree that we are both lovely, and move on to my true purpose." She was holding, Sansa noticed then, a little chest, and she set it down before Sansa and waited, beaming, until Sansa finally reached to open it.

On doing so, she gasped. The chest's contents glittered, a riot of metals and jewels. She had never seen any of them before, she was sure, never seen Ellaria wearing them.

"I should have gotten more silver," Ellaria was saying, thoughtfully, even as Sansa gaped. "There's not much you'll be able to wear this evening. But I thought this, at least — " and reaching in, she plucked out a gleaming silver-and-bronze comb.

"This — " Sansa finally managed. "This is too much, my lady." She had gone red, she could feel it, and she could not meet Ellaria's eyes as she closed the chest again.

Ellaria knelt before her then, setting the comb aside and taking Sansa's hands in her own. She did not speak, only waited until Sansa looked directly at her. She did not seem insulted or angry, or even very sad. She only wore that same soft, loving smile as always. When she spoke at last, it was in a quiet voice, as if they were the only two people in the world. "I know you have been too long accustomed to cruelty to adjust quickly to kindness, so let us say that instead of taking them for your own sake, you are taking them for mine. Zia could tell you how angry I was, when I could not get them to tell me aught of what might have been done with the jewels your lady mother sent south with you. And these are not so fine as you may think at first glance, in truth; I bought them yesterday, after we left the Red Keep, on the Street of Looms. That is why Zia returned home before I did. They are nothing half so fine as a lady of your stature ought to wear, but they are at least a step in the right direction, I think."

"Of course," Sansa managed. "I — I am sorry. You must think me so ungrateful, after all that you and the prince have done for me."

"I think nothing of the sort," she said, gentle and firm as the earth itself. "And I hope very much that you do not believe Oberyn does, either. Indeed, there is a reason that we did not wait until later, and have a grander feast, something more appropriate for the Lady of Winterfell: it seemed to me that such a thing might require too much discomfort on your part for the sake of our own pride. Well," she added, her eyes twinkling, "that, and the fact that my sweet prince has no patience whatsoever."

Sansa laughed at that, a little, and Ellaria kissed each of her hands in turn, and rose again. Opening the chest again, she drew out a bracelet, all silver, etched all over with what might have been sunbursts. "I liked this in particular," she said, pointing to one of the designs, "they look like suns, but I think they also look a little like snowflakes. Summer and winter, Dorne and the North."

"It's perfect," Sansa breathed, and meant it. Ellaria slid it onto her wrist, then picked up the comb she had taken out earlier. As she passed it to Zia, Sansa got a better look at it, and realized that the comb itself was mostly of silver — the bronze flashes she had seen were snakes twined along the back.

The sun was the symbol of House Nymeros Martell, of course, but the snake was all Prince Oberyn. Something about the thought made her blush, just a little, but she felt a strange warmth in her chest as well, as Zia tucked the comb into her hair. Looking in the glass, Sansa saw that the two snakes sat atop her hair like a little tiara.

"Lovely," Ellaria hummed, stroking Sansa's hair.

Sansa could not bring herself to speak it out loud, but a little part of her thought _Oh, I am, I am, thanks to them,_ and when Ellaria caught her eye in the glass, she was able, at least, to smile. "We both are," she said, remembering what Ellaria had said earlier.

"You are a very sweet lady," Ellaria answered, wrapping her arms around Sansa's chest from behind and hugging her, then pressing another soft kiss against her cheek. Sansa felt herself blush once more, but it was such a queer feeling, this time — it wasn't because she was frightened or embarrassed at all. It was as if she had been laughing too hard, or racing around the grounds of Winterfell with Arya and Robb and Jon, trying to toss snowballs up at Bran as he ran along the walls. The others were all better runners anyway, so once baby Rickon was big enough to run around with them as well, she would stay with him, for it made him feel better not to be the only one who lagged behind. (Besides, she pointed out to him, sometimes Bran would double back, and then _they_ would be the ones to catch him!) It was a sort of giddy, warm, breathless feeling. _Perhaps the feast will not be so bad,_ she thought. _It has given me an excuse for all this niceness, after all._ And besides, she had met some of the other lords and ladies of Dorne before, had even bathed with Ser Daemon Sand's sisters — half-sisters, she recalled, but the distinction did not seem near so important to the Dornish as it had in Winterfell — and they had all been just as kind and patient and merry as Ellaria and Prince Oberyn.

There was a knock at the door then, and as though her very thoughts had summoned him up, Prince Oberyn entered, followed by Ser Daemon. "You look lovely, my ladies," the squire said, bowing. "Lady Stark, I hope you will not think me too presumptuous if I beg you for a dance later; I fear if I wait until the dancing actually begins, I shall have to fight all the other fellows for the honor."

Sansa found herself smiling at him as Ellaria pulled her to her feet. There were butterflies in her stomach, but for the first time in ages, she was not more afraid than anything else. "You are very kind to say so, ser," she said to Daemon. "Only I do not know much of Dornish dances. I — I hope your boots are sturdy," she added, in a rush, and felt absurdly pleased with herself when he laughed.

"Your slipper would be the nicest thing ever to land on my foot, I dare say," he answered, with a sly look at his prince.

Oberyn rolled his eyes. "I dropped one horseshoe some years ago and he has never let me forget it. Perhaps _you_ ought to squire for me instead, Sansa; you are a good deal less apt to complain than the one I have now."

"You broke two of my toes," Ser Daemon retorted. "They have never bent quite the right way since," he told Sansa. "We should all be glad that I have good boots, so you are spared the sight of them."

"I have seen you in the baths, Daemon. Your feet are still as handsome as the rest of you. My lady," Prince Oberyn held out his arm, and Sansa stepped aside to let Ellaria by, but she passed him by and took Ser Daemon's instead.

 _Oh,_ Sansa realized, understanding suddenly. This was all in her honor...and, she realized, they called her Lady Stark in front of others. _I outrank nearly everyone in the Prince's hall,_ she thought, but it seemed such a strange notion, after so long, as if she were thinking of some other person, some other great lady. She could understand the idea, but she could not quite believe that the lady in question was _her_. "Forgive me, my prince," was all she said, when it dawned on her how long she had stood there gaping. "I am not used to — to such formal affairs."

He snorted, putting his other hand over hers as they followed the others. "No, I expect you are not," he said, and then added, "you know, technically, I believe you even outrank me, my lady. Perhaps _you_ ought to have the highest seat tonight."

"Oh, no," she gasped, "but you're the _host_ , and — and you are teasing me," she said, for she had caught how the corner of his mouth twitched.

"I am," he admitted. "Forgive me, Sansa. It was not very gallant of me."

"You have already been more gallant than any other person I have met in this city," she said, softly, and he rubbed her hand with his own, gently, as if in answer. Feeling brave, suddenly, she said, "Thank you, again, for all you have done to keep me from — from _them._ " For she did not wish to say the name Lannister, did not wish to let even their name be here, tonight, when everything seemed so lovely.

"In truth," he said, his tone still light as ever, as they approached the great hall of the manse, "I owe part of the victory on that count to them. The queen came very close — well, but that is not a story for such a merry evening. It has its own grim humor to it, though; perhaps another day. As to your thanks, Sansa, it is the least you are owed, so far as I am concerned. You are not the lady for whom I came to this city seeking justice, but you deserve it no less than she did."

He had never spoken openly to her of his sister; even Ellaria had only mentioned her once or twice, and indirectly at that. Sansa did not know what to say, but, for a moment, she laid her other hand atop his, and that seemed to be enough. When she chanced a look up, he was gazing down at their hands, each atop the other's, with a soft little smile on his face that she had seen only now and again, and only for Ellaria.

* * *

**Oberyn**

Sansa was magnificent.

That should hardly have come as a surprise. He had known she was a beauty since he first laid eyes on her, trying to fade into some corner of the court, and nearly succeeding. But, then, it was not her beauty that had ever been in question; it was certainly not her beauty that had taken his breath away when he and Daemon first entered the solar this evening.

It was something else, something in the way she carried herself, some strange small thing that had changed in her, so that he could hardly believe she was that same ghostly creature from the Red Keep. She was still quiet, still a perfect image of courtesy and grace. But there was something different, nonetheless. She smiled more — indeed, that she smiled at all was a change from the young lady he had first glimpsed. Her courtesy and grace were smoother, gentler, warmer, less icy armor than warm, rich garments.

He felt her trembling a little as he led her through the hall to the high table, but who could blame her for that? Modest though the feast was, the fact remained that near all the great families of Dorne were represented, not to mention retainers, knights, and servants. Even so, though, as he seated her beside him, at his right hand, she did not seem so brittle as she had at supper that first day, when it was only the three of them. She might, almost, have been any ordinary maid, only a little nervous.

With each course, she seemed more at her ease. By the time the soup was cleared away, she looked almost as young as she truly was. When he made a bawdy joke to Ellaria on his left, he heard laughter from both his sides, though Sansa's was as quick and choked as any proper young lady's ought to have been at such a comment.

At last, he said to her directly, "I do not know that I have ever seen you merry, my lady. It suits you."

Her cheeks went a little pink, but she did not hide her face, at least, meeting his smile with her own. "You are very kind to say so, my prince. 'Tis Lady Sand's clothing that suits me more, I think; she has exquisite taste. And I have never had a meal under your roof that was less than delicious, so the rest of the credit must go to your cook, and yourself, for laying such a table."

"You are too sweet, my lady," Ellaria said from his other side. "Such of my things as you have suffered me to drape you in are quite lucky to have the duty. You would be beautiful in rags, so it is hardly a surprise that you are beautiful in my own dull pieces. We had agreed," she added to Oberyn, her eyes twinkling, "to say that we are both lovely, so if she will insist upon belittling her own beauty for my sake again, I shall have to do the same. She has violated the terms of our peace, as it were."

"An unkind accusation," he answered, laughing. "To besmirch Lady Stark's honor so. She is quite right that your clothing suits her beautifully, though I dare say, my lady, that Ellaria is quite right that you would look beautiful even in rags. You are quite right about my cook deserving some of the credit, though; the woman is a true gem. At any rate, I hope I may flatter myself that this is not such an abysmal little festivity as to insult you."

She smiled, and shook her head. "You are very kind, my prince. I have not been to any feast so — that is — "

He resisted the urge to make a jest of it; somehow there was a difference between her hesitation now, and her hesitation when she feared to offend. _She is much affected, but she cannot say how._ He could not have guessed how he knew, but suddenly he was sure of it. So, for once, Oberyn only sat and waited, hoping that the smile on his face would be enough to encourage her.

At last, looking down at her cup, she said, softly, "For a moment, now and then, it is as if I am at my father's table again."

The words stole the breath from him, and he could not remember, for a moment, to smile. Perhaps that was why she ducked her head, busying herself with the salad. "Forgive me, my prince," she mumbled. "I know that is a stupid thing to — "

"No," he interrupted, placing his hand on hers, stilling it. The hall was as loud as ever, but somehow it might only have been the two of them. "Forgive me, my lady, if I gave you the impression that I take offense; it is only that your words moved me deeply. If you feel half so safe under my roof as you did under your lord father's, if you feel half so cherished by my brother's people as you did by your father's, half so free and merry at my table as when you were a girl...I can think of no greater honor you could pay to my household, or to me."

At last, Sansa met his eyes once more. She did not speak, but she did not need to.

Then there was more wine, and the spell was broken, until he noticed, after refilling her cup, that she was not drinking, only staring at it. "My lady?" he asked her. She started, looked over at him, and smiled, then took up her cup...and stood.

Oberyn was dimly aware of Ellaria on his left calling for silence, and joined in himself, absently, but he could not take his eyes off of her.

"My prince," she said, when the music had broken off and the hall was quiet, and somehow, for all her care and caution and quiet, her voice might have carried across a battlefield, and his heart seemed to flare with pride in her as he noticed that it hardly shook at all. "My good lords and ladies — and knights, and squires, and good Maester Raymun, and all you others, for there is not a man or woman among you, whatever your birth, who has shown me aught but courtesy and kindness, and far more of it than I deserve."

 _Oh, that was beautifully done,_ he thought, even as he glimpsed Zia, below the salt, beaming, and patting the other girls proudly. He would quibble with the 'more than I deserve' remark, but he supposed it was an ordinary enough courtesy, really.

"I did not think to speak at all, so I have no pretty words prepared, certainly nothing so fine as befits the honor, and the affection, which I already hold for you all in my heart. I shall not, therefore, trouble you long, which I am sure you are all glad of, for what could a girl of three-and-ten say to interest you, truly?"

"Much and more, I am sure," Oberyn said, for 'more than I deserve' was one thing, but that was quite enough. When the laughter faded, he added, "I have never known the lady to speak but to say something well worth the hearing."

The tips of her ears turned pink at that, but she went on, and he thought her voice was a little steadier now. "My prince, you all can see, has shown quite well why I could not forgive myself if I said nothing. When first I left the North, I knew that Southron ways were different, that it was a new land I went to, but I was delighted all the same. I was born in the spring, but truly, I was a summer child. It is only — " She paused a moment, took a breath, and continued. "It is only here, now, under the banner of House Nymeros Martell and among so much of the chivalry of Dorne, that I have at last begun to think that I was not so foolish in my delight, after all."

She bowed her head, and finished, her voice quavering only a bit. "From the bottom of my heart, whatever gods may have delivered me to you," she said, "whether the Seven gods of my mother, or the nameless ones of my father, or Mother Rhoyne, I thank them, just as, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you."

As she sat, the hall was quiet, but as the chatter began to resume, someone — a woman, and one from the vicinity of his own maids, unless he was much mistaken, began to raise a call of "Stark! Stark!"

The rest took it up, and at last, Oberyn stood, and raised his glass. "To Lady Stark," he said.

"Lady Stark!" the hall echoed, and though he felt her tremble, a little, at his side, though her face was red, she lifted her head up once again. The smile under her bright, solemn eyes was small, but it was no bashful maid's; it was a lady's, a princess's, a queen's.

It was over the sweet — honeyed pastries layered with pistachios and blood orange tarts — that he asked her some silly thing, even he could hardly have said what, he only found that he wanted to hear her speak, to see her smile again. Sansa did not answer, and looking over, he saw that she had not touched the food on her plate. She was frowning — it did not seem to Oberyn that she looked troubled, only thoughtful. Her head was tilted, and when she caught him looking at her, she blushed a little and said "Forgive my inattention, my prince. I only — I do not know this song. Is it Dornish?"

He listened more closely to the opening notes, and as the singer began, he smiled, recognizing it. "No. It's from the Riverlands. A good hero's song, about a brave young king and his victory in battle."

"My mother was from the Riverlands," she said, "but I never..."

"Your mother will not have heard it in her childhood," he said. "It is a new song, and it is certainly not one they will have sung at court. You see, the brave young king outwits an old lion, and wins a great victory over him on his own land. It is called 'A Wolf in the Night'."

" _Oh_ ," she breathed, and the look that passed over her face as she understood, the awe and the sorrow and the secret, raging delight, was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, and the most terrible.

After each verse, properly, there was to come a chorus of howling. Lady Blackmont's children were among the first to raise their voices at this end of the hall, perhaps because Daemon, who sat between Sansa and Jynessa Blackmont, had overheard their discussion, and threw himself into it lustily. But to Oberyn's other side, Ellaria was howling too, he noted, and the river of his love for her was made just a little deeper for it. By the end, though, near all the hall rang with howling. There was silence at his right hand, however. When he looked over at Sansa, Oberyn was horrified, at first, for all he saw were the tears that ran down her cheeks. _Gods be good,_ he recalled, _it's about Oxcross — her scars —_ but before he could say anything, as if she knew, Ellaria put her hand on his. "She is smiling, my love," she whispered.

And so she was. As the last notes faded, the hall echoed louder than ever with the howling of Dorne's wolves, and Sansa Stark, he saw, was smiling as he had never seen her smile, as he had never guessed she _could_ smile. Daemon had passed her a handkerchief, and even as she dashed away her tears, she kept smiling.

He could not help asking, though, "Are you well, my lady?"

She did not seem to trust herself to speak, but she nodded, still smiling. She was no longer weeping, and the tears had made her eyes shine all the bluer. At last, she said, softly, "Perhaps Joff had me beaten because he knew there would never be a song so wonderful about _him_."

Oberyn was shocked into silence for a moment, but when she finally dared a look at him, and he saw the sparkle in her eye, he burst into laughter. Perhaps he was imagining the way her eyes sparkled, the way she smiled like any mischievous girl, even as she nibbled delicately at her pastry, but gods, he hoped not.

Daemon had had the right of it, of course; he was lucky to have claimed a dance already. Perros Blackmont was quick to ask as well, and then each the Manwoodys in turn, jolly old Lord Dagos, his brother Ser Myles, and each of his sons. The top of little Dickon's head hardly reached her chin, but she accepted him as graciously as all the others, and when she confided that he must help her with the steps, for she did not know this one, he was as solemn as the proudest knight could have been. Near every man or boy among the Dornish chivalry strong enough to dance asked her, and a few of the ladies besides, Ellaria chief among them.

"She seems happy," he told Ellaria, when he managed to get her to himself for a dance of his own. "She seems..."

"Comfortable," Ellaria finished for him, as he searched for the right word.

He would have kissed her, for no other reason than that _he_ was happy too, for the first time since he had left his daughters and his brother and his home behind and come to this wretched seven-times-damned city. The dance did not allow them that much time standing still, however, and he had to settle for hoping she could see the affection in his eyes.

As the festivities came to their close, he claimed princely prerogative, and asked for the last dance himself. Sansa was fading by then, he could tell, and was glad the musicians played something suitably sleepy and mellow. "I am not one of these young bucks, you know," he told her, nodding in Daemon's direction. Sansa smiled at that, and he did not mention that it made him feel many years younger.

All in all, Oberyn Martell's sigil may have been the sun, but it was Sansa Stark who truly shone tonight. The thought struck him after, as he and Ellaria were undressing, and when he spoke it aloud, she laughed fondly. "I haven't seen you in so poetical a mood in ages," she said, kissing the back of his neck. "It suits you, my love."

"Well, but am I wrong?" he asked, leaning back so that she could kiss his mouth, instead, even if he was upside-down to her.

"Indeed not," she said, after kissing him, as they crawled beneath the covers together. She yawned, but went on, sleepily, "I can think of no better inspiration than our sweet lady."

He hardly knew he had fallen asleep when he found himself washed in the sudden morning light, blinking up at Daemon, who had thrown open the curtains on the bed. "Oberyn," he said, and that was all he needed to sit up, his heart racing. Daemon only used his name in lust or in panic, and the tension on his face made it all too clear which this was.

Ellaria was awake too, he saw, blinking against the sudden light, but her mouth drawn tight already. "Sansa," she said, before Oberyn could. "Daemon — "

Oberyn heard them speaking more, but their voices seemed far away, in some tongue he did not know. There was a rushing noise in his ears, a howling gale of noise. He was only half-aware of himself as he grabbed up the clothing Daemon handed to him, and when the torrent of sound in his ears faded a little, Oberyn realized he heard soft weeping in the next room. He opened the door to find one of the maids, Shella, trembling and pale, with Zia comforting her.

"My prince," Zia began, but Oberyn was already past them, racing through the manse's halls. When he saw the cluster of guards outside Sansa's door, he realized that he had taken up his daggers as well. And inside, when he saw, huddled on her bed, eyes wide and seeing nothing, the ghostly creature he had first seen in the Red Keep — as if none of this time had passed, as if she had never smiled or laughed or been kissed by Ellaria or begun, perhaps (he had thought, hoped, but now he knew he had only flattered himself), to feel safe — he was glad to have them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR: he won't even appear in this story, and STILL, Littlefinger manages to mess with Sansa. Hate that guy, seriously.

**Sansa**

It was the maid's scream that woke her.

Sansa's eyes flew open, and somehow, _this_ felt familiar to her, this terror, more so than the days of kindness and dignity had. A little part of her, twisted and dark, knew what to do in that moment of waking and terror. She went still, and waited, and — and it must have been a minute or three, at least, until she became aware of a soft touch on her shoulder.

 _The Hound,_ she thought first, for no one else in the Keep had ever touched her so gently, but then, _no, but he fled, he's gone —_

"My lady," she heard, as if from a very great distance, and she realized suddenly that Ellaria Sand was kneeling beside her bed. Her eyes were as wide and dark and sweet as a doe's, and she had folded her hands, both of them, on the bed, just next to Sansa's own, but not quite touching them, as if — as if she _knew_ , somehow, that right now, in this strange state, Sansa could not have told a gentle touch from any other.

 _Perhaps that is what it means to be a paramour,_ Sansa reflected, the strange thought fluttering through her mind like the bright, sweet song of some exotic bird. In the Red Keep they said she worshiped some strange love goddess, but she seemed to keep the faith of the Seven to Sansa. Perhaps it was only a misunderstanding, perhaps she had some divine gift of kindness instead.

It was those hands — gentle and graceful as her own lady mother's, but younger and less familiar (though she knew them, already, so well!) and somehow redolent of strangeness and excitement as well as comfort — that brought Sansa back to herself, and the knowledge that she was no place Joffrey could touch her now. Joff was dead, for one thing, and even if he weren't, she was still outside the Keep, she was under Martell protection, he had sworn it, and that she would never have to go back, besides.

She was under Martell protection, and the prince's own paramour was gazing at her and waiting for her answer.

Sansa was embarrassed then, but she knew that if she spoke of it everyone would only be kind, and that would only be more embarrassing still. The thought of so much kindness was nearly as frightening as her first shock at the scream that woke her, but she must not ignore Lady Sand. She managed a smile, and reached out for one of the lady's hands, and turned her head to blink toward the place whence the maid's scream had come.

"No, sweetling — " Ellaria was quick enough, the hand Sansa hadn't taken catching the back of Sansa's neck, that at least, if she could not turn her back (as Sansa guessed she meant to do) she made Sansa feel a little stronger as she saw what must have caused the commotion.

She had lain there frozen there long enough for the guards to come in, Sansa realized, between the scream and the sight of Ellaria which brought her back to herself. One of them had covered it with a cloak. But it was clear enough what the shape was in the trunk Zia had opened, the one meant to contain what clothes Ellaria had arranged to be brought from the Red Keep.

Dimly, she was aware of Ellaria climbing into her bed, still holding her hand. "Oh, my dear," she sighed, squeezing it, "we thought to carry you from the room, but I feared that would be worse."

"Yes." Sansa could barely hear the word, and it took her a moment to realize that she had uttered it. "No. Yes. I mean — yes, you were right, I would not have wanted that. Thank you," she added, and heard Ellaria sigh, and then felt a strange warmth beside her, and realized belatedly that it was the lady herself. It was she who moved, rather than drawing Sansa away, inching a little closer and moving her arm from the gentle hold on Sansa's neck to draping around her shoulders.

"Oh, my dear," Ellaria murmured again, and Sansa felt, suddenly, as though another touch might shatter her.

"I am all right," she said, in that same strange way she had got sometimes in the Red Keep, where it was as if someone else were speaking. She felt like a mummer pulling on a puppet's strings. Somehow she even seemed to be looking, not through her own eyes, but down at herself, as a mummer would her puppet. Carefully, she drew away from the Lady Sand. "Do you know — "

"The fool," came a voice. She had not noticed Prince Oberyn either, then, and he was a hard man to miss. He had known what she meant to ask, though. He was lifting the edge of the cloak that covered the body, but at such an angle that all she could see was the orange silk. "It's one of those fools of Joffrey's, the one you..."

He did not finish, perhaps afraid to upset her further, but from the distant place she had gone, she was not surprised at all. "Dontos. Ser Dontos Hollard," Sansa corrected herself, still in that strange distant voice which she only half recognized as her own. "He was a knight once." Whatever else he had been, he was a true knight to her.

Eventually, dimly, she was aware of Ellaria guiding her gently from the room, her strong, warm arm still draped over Sansa's shoulders. She realized that they had turned toward Prince Oberyn's rooms only once Ellaria drew her into a chaise by the fireplace. She stayed with her, drew her in closer than she had held her in the bed, even. Somehow, Sansa did not feel quite so brittle now.

"The maid," Sansa managed. Her throat felt strange, tight and raw, as if she had been screaming, though of course she hadn't.

"Shella," she heard someone say. Zia, she realized, looking up. There was a strange softness in the maid's eyes. "She's in the kitchens now, m'lady."

"It wasn't — please, she couldn't help the noise, anyone would have — "

Ellaria hushed her, but Zia seemed to understand, though she only looked sadder. "Of course they would've, m'lady. It's all right," she said, kneeling beside the chaise, so that her eyes were at the same level as Sansa's. She smiled, and patted her hand. "She's in no trouble. She's in the kitchens for some hot spiced wine, and Maester's given Cook a little something extra to put in it besides. Ser Daemon's asked her a few questions, but after the wine, she'll have a good long sleep, and be right as rain soon enough."

"It wasn't her fault," Sansa said, though she didn't really think she needed to, and she heard Ellaria's breath catch, saw how Zia smiled gently. _She feels sorry for me,_ Sansa realized, and remembered that it was Zia who had told Ellaria and Prince Oberyn about her scars.

"Of course it wasn't, m'lady," Zia said, and gave Sansa another smile. "I'll be sure to tell her you're worried for her. She'll love you even more for it, and she loves you well enough already." Shella was one of the youngest maids, and she'd been shy with Sansa at first, but loved to sing as she worked, and they had taught each other songs.

"She oughtn't," Sansa said, before she could help herself. "She oughtn't love me, certainly not now. It's my fault, isn't it? That it happened?"

Zia bit her lip, and Sansa felt a brush of soft lips at her temple. "No, my dear," Ellaria murmured, her hand around Sansa tightening. Zia, with a curtsey and one last sad look, departed.

She could not have said how long they sat like that, Ellaria's arms about her, gazing into the fire. Eventually, Ellaria guided her to her feet again, but instead of taking her back to her rooms, or outside, she drew her through Prince Oberyn's bedchambers and into his private bath. She could not have said how long they stayed there, either; Ellaria sat behind her, stroking her hair and singing softly, until at last, she spoke.

"Would you like to tell me about him?" she asked, her voice hardly loud enough for Sansa to hear over her own heartbeat, the little ripply sounds of the water embracing her. "You needn't, of course, but if it might lighten your heart even a little..."

"There isn't much to tell, in truth," Sansa said. She was surprised, as much as she could be, distant as she was in that strange mummer's vantage whence she looked down on herself, by how cold her voice was. But perhaps coldness was only to be expected from a puppet, trying its best to be a girl. "Before Joffrey's nameday tourney, I had barely spoken to him." But a memory tugged at her, and before she could stop herself, she said, "When I went before Joff, to plead for my father, Ser Dontos was the only one in the court who greeted me, only because he didn't know any better, I suppose. Ser Balon stopped him, whispered something to him. I thought they were all acting so strange, but I was such a little girl then...how else should they have behaved toward a traitor's daughter?"

She heard Ellaria sigh, heard her draw in another breath, and then release it, even heard the way she closed her mouth, as though she had thought better of whatever she had meant to say. May the gods forgive her, Sansa was grateful for it, a little ,just as she was grateful that Ellaria had not had her carried from her bed. She did not think she could have borne whatever kindness Ellaria might have intended.

After a few more moments, though, as Ellaria was running a damp comb through her hair, Sansa managed to find her voice once more. "It was the Hound who saved him, as much as me. I don't know why he thanked _me_ for it."

"The Hound?" Ellaria repeated. "Do you mean — " her voice dropped slightly, as though she were saying something foul, something really shocking — "do you mean Sandor Clegane? Truly?"

"It was Joff's tourney, for his nameday." Even distant as she was from herself, from the wretched creature in the bath, the one whose fault this all was, she felt that creature's throat ached as she spoke. "He got drunk, and forgot he was supposed to tilt, and forgot to put on half his armor besides, or even his trousers. Joff meant to drown him, and I said he mustn't, and I made up some stupid story, about how it's bad luck to kill a man on your nameday. He didn't believe me, I could tell he didn't, and I knew he was just going to have them beat me for speaking out of turn, but then the Hound said I was right. He was the only one of them who never beat me, you know," she added, suddenly.

"Ser Dontos?" Ellaria asked.

"The Hound. Joff only had the Kingsguard do it, and Ser Dontos wasn't a Kingsguard. But the Hound never did it. And Joff never argued with him, or had him killed the way he did anyone else who told him no. Isn't that funny?" She had wondered, sometimes, why that was; Joff had no great respect for the man that she could see, and little affection. _But he was too stupid to see when the Hound made fun of him,_ she thought. "He wasn't a knight, either. Knights are supposed to protect ladies, but Dontos only started trying to help me when he wasn't a knight anymore, and the Hound never was. He hated knights. I wonder what's become of him, since he fled. Did you get his cloak?"

"His cloak?"

"It was with my things. He left his cloak with me the night he left. It was with my things. I hope it wasn't in with — " _You stupid girl, now you're thinking of it again, that terrible shape under the guard's cloak._

Ellaria seemed to understand, and bent down to lay a kiss on her brow. "I shall go to the Keep myself soon, and see if it's still there."

"No," she said, sitting up with a splash, and turning to look at Ellaria. She'd gotten water on Ellaria's dress, but it was important — "No, you mustn't. Please, my lady. I shouldn't have said anything, it's a stupid thing to worry about anyway. You mustn't go back, my lady, _please_." Who knew what they might do to her?

Ellaria was already hushing her, though, and leaned to rest her forehead against Sansa's, her soft warm hands on Sansa's shoulders. Sansa's hair was dripping all over her silks, but she did not seem to care. "It's all right, Sansa," she whispered. "It was not a stupid thing to think of, and truly, I do not think I would be at risk, but if it will set your mind at ease, you have my word that I shall not go back. Breathe, my love, only try to breathe."

Even the thought of Ellaria going back to the Keep, to Maegor's, had set Sansa's heart to racing again. _I am only some poor dumb rabbit, chased until its little heart bursts. I am no wolf at all. But they made me think I might be, again, and — and oh, how sweet that was, while I thought it! They were only trying to be kind, they couldn't have known how cruel it was, to make me believe it._

But she said none of this to Ellaria, only listened to her slow, deep breathing, and tried her best to match it with her own, until, finally, they were breathing together.

* * *

**Ellaria**

She had drawn Sansa out of her rooms as soon as she dared. She walked as if in a dream, but she let Ellaria lead her off, and when she moved, of her own volition, toward Oberyn's rooms, Ellaria was more than happy to take her there, and steer her to the chaise by the remnants of last night's fire.

"Draw her a bath, please?" she asked Zia, who arrived soon after, still a little pale herself after settling poor Shella in the kitchens with a cup of wine. Like Ellaria, Zia seemed glad of something to do, and she set to the task rapidly, sending one girl off to the kitchens to see about water before disappearing, herself, to fetch clothing for Sansa.

Oberyn had a bath of his own, off of his bedchamber, though he preferred the common baths near the kitchens; it was this that Ellaria ordered prepared. It was the men's day to use the common baths, but even if it hadn't been, she should have shut the place off from others entirely while she and Sansa were there, which was hardly fair to the rest.

She lost track of time as she sat with Sansa on the chaise, one arm around her and the other stroking her hair, waiting for Zia's word that the bath was ready. She caught herself humming something, some old children's song, only when Sansa began to hum it along with her.

"You have a lovely voice, my dear," she said softly, more to say something than anything else. She had heard her sing before, made her embarrassed with the praise before.

"Thank you, my lady." Sansa's voice was hard to hear, even so close. She did not look at Ellaria, and Ellaria suspected she did not know that she had spoken at all; she had not called her 'my lady' privately in days, or at least not without catching herself at it. She did not seem to mind as Ellaria drew her a little closer, and that was a mercy, for Ellaria did not know how else she might show her own distress, her own concern, her own love.

Sansa did not seem to notice when Oberyn came in, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw the two of them. Ellaria looked up at him briefly, and he gave her a small smile, one that she managed, barely, to return. Her attention was drawn back to Sansa after a moment, but she thought, from the corner of her eye, that he stood gazing at the two of them for several minutes, and when he finally went over to his desk, his steps were at least a little lighter.

 

Zia returned with the wine after the bath. One of the girls had brought a fresh sleeping shift for Sansa, but Ellaria draped her in one of Oberyn's robes as well, and returned to the chaise in front of the fireplace to sit with her a little longer. "Here you are, m'lady," she said. "Nice and warm, and with a bit of dreamwine as well from Maester Raymun. Same as Shella had, and she's sleeping soundly now. She'll be right as rain soon enough, and so will you."

"Thank you," Sansa said, and managed to return the smile, but her eyes were still far away, and the smile was a small enough thing.

"Yes," Ellaria said, "thank you, Zia. Take your time, love, but be sure you drink it all."

Oberyn, bless him, stayed clear of them now; she heard his footsteps in the hall now and again, as he tried to keep himself occupied. Sometimes he would check on them, though, as if they might have vanished in between when he last saw them. She could not fault him for that. Indeed, when next he peered in, she was glad of it: Sansa had finally drifted off to sleep again, and Ellaria could not carry her to the bed herself. Oberyn gathered her in his arms carefully, as carefully as if she might shatter.

Neither of them had discussed where she ought to sleep, but they did not need to; of course it would be in their bed. It had already been made up again in the time since they were wakened, and Ellaria was glad of something to do herself, able to pull the covers back for him. Once he had put her down, Sansa stirred a little, murmured something, but did not truly wake, thank the gods. Ellaria pulled the covers over her again, and then sat next to her, stroking her hair, gazing at the way the sunlight from the window played in it. Oberyn did not leave yet either, sinking to the floor and leaning his head against Ellaria's leg, hanging onto it with one hand while he hid his face in the other. His sigh was soft, hard to hear over the singing of the birds outside, but she could not miss how ragged it was.

It helped her, to have a hand on each of them, one on Sansa and one on Oberyn. She wished she could give them the same soothing, willed some of the calm she had regained to through her hands and into them. The thought made her smile a little.

She could not have said how long she and Oberyn remained thus, but at last, she drew a deep breath and lifted the hand with which she stroked Sansa's hair, squeezed Oberyn's shoulder with the other. "Come, my love," she said softly, offering him her hand, and glad he did not let go of it once he had stood.

Back in the solar, someone had laid out a little food for them — and, more importantly, wine. Ellaria poured herself a cup, and Oberyn as well, but before she could give it to him, she found herself putting the pitcher down, and the cup she held, as well. He seemed to know what she needed almost before she did, for he folded her, instantly, into his arms, just in time to keep the pieces of her from scattering about the room, to hold her into a shape like herself, for as long as she might need.

She only wept a little, all told, but she stayed like that, in Oberyn's arms, much longer. Everything seemed very far away for a few moments, everything but the memory of the deathly-still girl she had held in her arms and the reality, now, of the warmth of her prince's embrace.

"She will be alright," Ellaria whispered, and she could not have said which of them she was trying to reassure. "She has endured so much worse — gods, she has seen worse than dead men, she saw her _father_ — " but that set her to weeping once more, harder this time.

Oberyn did not hush her or echo her own insipid platitudes back at her, gods bless him, only held her all the tighter.

At last, she managed to draw a long, shuddering breath, and then another, more steady. Oberyn did not let her go just yet, however. She was not sorry for it, was more than happy to stay here in his arms, with the birds singing outside.

He sighed, finally, and let her go, only pausing to kiss her gently. "You are right, of course," he said, taking up the cups she had filled and passing her one. "She will heal in time, but..."

"I know," Ellaria said for him. He gave her a little grateful smile, and she managed to return it. Then she put her cup to her lips and drained half its contents.

When she looked back at him again, he was staring at a trunk beside his writing table, a perfectly ordinary one that had come from Dorne with him, smaller and of a darker wood than the one from the Red Keep. But he stared at it as if he were seeing the dreadful thing all over again. She did not want to ask, did not want to speak of it; if it had been her choice, the two of them would down cups of dreamwine as well, and go right back to bed. _But we must be stronger. For his brother, and for Dorne, and for her, until she has recovered more of her own strength again._

They had both finished their first cups of wine and were well into their second before either of them spoke.

"He was only just killed," Oberyn said.

His voice was low, but she heard the edge in it, and she saw how he clenched his fists. He was trying to keep his rage under control, and she could hardly blame him. "No more than a few hours ago. His throat was cut. Not in the trunk itself, there isn't enough blood. I expect the body was stuffed in as soon as the blood stopped flowing. Much longer, and the smell would have given the game away before the trunk reached her rooms."

"Gods," Ellaria said, and she could not take her eyes away from his trunk either. "They meant for her to see it, then, whoever this was."

Oberyn nodded. "If it was only meant for us, that would have been a good deal more easily accomplished, requiring only that they dump him on our doorstep. This was meant for Sansa, too."

"Meant by whom? To what possible end?" Ellaria asked. Her prince only shook his head as he dragged his gaze, at last, away from his own harmless trunk and back to her. She did not expect Oberyn to know any better than she did; he would not have kept it from her if he had any idea. But she had no other way to express the churning in her guts, the roil of her sorrow and horror — aye, and her own rage, too.

At last he said, slowly, carefully, "I do not think that this was Lannister work. Oh, it smells of them, sure enough, and it was someone who knows enough of the Keep's comings and goings to accomplish this. But if they knew the fool's part, then I think the Lannisters would have kept him alive for the trial, and we should likely be fighting them much harder to keep Sansa here, if they had not used him to arrest her already. I would guess that this was done by whomever she was meant to meet when we found her in the godswood. To silence him, certainly, but also to punish him for his failure to retrieve her, and..." His voice was strangled, and he trailed off, his eyes blazing, unable even to finish the thought. He gazed through the doorway to his bed for a moment, then spun and stalked over to the balcony.

"And they sent his body here to punish _her_ , for her desertion," Ellaria finished for him, sickened, barely able to whisper the words, joining him and trying only to breathe the air, as though the cool autumn breeze might carry some of the horror away. "Thank the gods we found her first."

Oberyn laughed a little, a dry, angry sound. "Ser Dontos might not agree with you, but I do, may the Seven forgive me. Thank the gods for the Spider, even, for giving us reason to notice her, to follow her. Whoever this 'friend' was, I shall sleep better knowing she is free of him."

"The Tyrells?" Ellaria asked. "They wanted to marry her to Willas..."

He shook his head. "They do not rule by such blatant terror. They might well have done the killing, but they would never let so much as a whisper of it reach her, let alone the corpse itself. If they _did_ let any word of it get out, rather than simply making him vanish, it would be with some dreadful tale about him having wicked designs on her, to make her all the more grateful to them for saving her from him. More likely, though, they too would have kept him alive to trot out as a witness against the Imp and help them clear the way to her for Willas. I expect we should have had word from them before now, as well — they'd not approach us directly, to be sure, but they'd have started to put out feelers, tried to learn what plans we have for her."

"What plans _might_ we have for her?" Ellaria asked, straightening to look at him directly.

It was not the most pressing question at the moment, perhaps, but it was one they must begin to consider before too long. They had not thought very far ahead, any of them, not least because Sansa herself did not seem ready to do so just yet. _She has lived so long in terror,_ Oberyn had said once, as they lay together talking, _only thinking as far ahead as the next day, that I expect she has forgotten how to think in longer terms._ But with the trial, there was more than enough to concern themselves with, so they had not discussed the future much privately, either.

Oberyn shrugged, and did not reply for a moment. He looked over at her at last, though, and followed her back into his solar. "For myself, I only want to get her to Sunspear as soon as I may," he answered, finally, with another glance toward the doorway to his bedchamber, where a pale sliver of her face could just be seen. "Beyond that...well, it is for Doran to decide, of course. Even if the Imp does not lose his head, the marriage will be undone soon enough — if she desires otherwise, I suppose Doran might not object, but I do not think she is so fond of him as that. A marriage will have to be made at some point, for the sake of Winterfell, but besides, she will never know a moment's peace without one. Willas _would_ make her a good husband, in truth, I think, though to be sure, the Tyrells will never come _here_ to suggest such directly, nor beg that we darken their doors for the same purpose. Now that she is under Martell protection, a Tyrell marriage would be a more ticklish matter. Not impossible, though," he added, thoughtfully. "There is Quentyn, but Doran has his own plans for him..."

"Will you make me be the one to say it, then?" Ellaria asked, smiling in spite of herself, in spite of everything.

"Say what?" Her prince looked surprised, cocking his head, and she felt her smile grow.

"Oh, I _do_ love you, my sweet stupid prince," she said, and pulled him to face her so that she could kiss the tip of his nose. "Doran's sons may be promised, but he _does_ have a brother. You are enamored with her already, I dare say."

"I am — " Oberyn started to protest, and then, seeing her look, he continued sheepishly, "well — _I_ dare say I am no more enamored than you."

"I do not deny that," she said, refilling both their cups once more. "But, what with my being a bastard, and a woman besides, _I_ cannot marry her, so what _I_ think is of far less consequence. Unmarried men of a suitable rank are rather thin on the ground at the moment — that happens, I have heard, with wars. Do not play coy, my love, it does not suit you — she could do far worse, and so could you."

Oberyn snorted as she pressed a cup into his hand. "You flatter me, Ellaria."

"You would not love me half so well if that were true," she pointed out easily, and he chuckled softly in agreement. The sound, the way the fury in his eyes seemed to ebb, if only slightly, helped to thaw her heart a little, made her feel as if the ground under her feet were a little steadier. "Anyway," she continued, "if you have not had the thought already — which I suppose, my beloved idiot, is entirely possible — then I do think that you must begin considering it. If it has not occurred to your brother already, I have no doubt that it will."

"Nothing occurs to any of us that my brother did not think of two weeks ago," Oberyn complained half-heartedly, "and dismiss two weeks less one day ago. Quentyn...perhaps. She is three-and-ten, and he is only a few years older. If he should return from Essos unwed, it will be after enough time has passed that marriage may be less of a terror for her. And as I say, though it would be a more tricky matter, Willas is not out of the question, either, though I think that he is rather old for her. And _I_ am older still," he added pointedly.

"Oh, to be sure," Ellaria scoffed, "you are positively frail with your advanced age, as withered as an old apple. And after all, I know how you hate the sight of a fair young creature in your bed."

He snorted again, but shook his head. "I shall not deny...certainly, if I were twenty years younger, I should press my suit without hesitation. Perhaps even ten, I think. But — by the time she is old enough — "

"She is a woman flowered, wedded if not bedded," Ellaria reminded him. "I agree that it should be left a year or three, at least. Indeed, were she ten years older, I should say much the same, for she must have time to heal. But in a year? Even five? You are hardly ancient, love; I do not expect you will crumble to dust in that time."

Oberyn said nothing to this, and she sighed. "Well, as you will," she said, and kissed his brow. His eyes were a little less angry, at least, the lines around his mouth a little less deep, and that was something. "But for my sake, and for hers as well, I would ask that you not discount the idea out of hand. She is lovely, she is clever, she has a sweet nature and gentle heart, she has half the Seven Kingdoms to her name, we are both near in love with her already...and not least of all, she trusts us, or at least, I think we would not flatter ourselves to say that she is closer to trusting us than many other living persons. That is no small thing, after all she has endured, and it is something you ought to remember when considering what match might be best for her. If you are determined not to be convinced, very well, though I warn you I shall not give up on the idea this easily. If nothing else, I think you had best start marshalling your arguments against the marriage for your brother."

He smiled at that, but there was something more distant in his eyes, and sad. "Do you think she trusts us, truly?" he asked, and the softness in his voice near broke her heart all over again.

"Oh, my darling," she murmured, pulling him away from the door to the bedchamber and over to the chaise. "My sweet, sweet Oberyn." She had meant to comfort him, but she was glad when he wrapped her up in his arms; for almost the first time since Daemon woke them, she felt safe again.

"She should not," was all he said. "I told her they would not reach her here. Gods, the moment we found her, I ought to have found the next ship to Dorne and put her on it, with Daemon and a dozen good swords besides. But I wanted to rub it in the Lannisters' faces that I had her. Perhaps the gods will forgive me for my pride, but she should not."

"You vowed to her that she would never enter the Red Keep again but that she willed it, Oberyn," she told him. "You vowed to her that they would never take her from your protection. You have said yourself, this was no Lannister work."

"No Lannister work, no," he said, "but it is not only Lannisters who pose a danger to her, and..."

"And whoever did this thing, look how much trouble they had to take to do it," she told him firmly. "And look how little they could do, in truth, besides! That this was a spiteful, cruel thing to do, I do not argue, nor that it was tragic for the poor fellow, and a blow to her. But you do her an injustice if you think that this one blow will break her. She is stronger than that, and once the terrible shock is less fresh, she is still wise enough to know that this one dreadful thing does not undo all the good that you have done for her, all the honor you have shown her...and I think she loves you well enough not to blame you, either."

He laughed a little, softly, at that. "You _do_ flatter me, my love."

"Is that what you think?" she asked. "Oberyn, how could she not love you? She is a wise young lady; more than wise enough to see through all your blustering and guess the good man you are."

He shook his head, drawing closer to her even so. She breathed deeply, letting the smell of him calm her. He said, at last, "If I thought she did..."

Ellaria sighed, trying to keep her patience. "The two of you would make a fine match indeed, you are both so determined not to hear the truth of yourselves. But _she_ at least has the excuse of being only three-and-ten, and having spent the past two years a prisoner. I wish you would hear me when I tell you these things. If you do not believe me, fine, but I beg you, today at least, not to argue with me about it. Let me say only this: before we came to King's Landing, I thought I could not love you more than I already did. You are the father to my children and the love of my life, what more could I have ever dreamed of? And yet I was wrong, for everything that you have done for her has made my love even stronger."

She felt him smile — that was something — and he was, at least, wise enough not to answer her this time. Eventually, lack of dreamwine notwithstanding, she noticed that his breathing had evened out, that his eyes had closed. She was glad of it, and glad, as well, to lay there, half-dozing, as afternoon began to settle about the manse, and the world began to feel a little steadier and warmer around her again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sansa**

She was not sure where she was when she first woke, but somehow, this did not terrify her. The soft voices beyond the heavy, half-closed curtains of the bed were familiar, safe, and the linens smelled like sunshine and oranges, and...cinnamon, maybe, some sweet spice, and also of pepper, a little.

Then she recalled that she had been in the Prince's personal bath, and why. Dimly, she remembered Ellaria guiding her to another bed after giving her a glass of wine — _dreamwine_ , she recalled, _Zia said that Maester Raymun gave some to poor Shella, too_ — and then sitting with her once more, stroking her hair as warmth and sleep took her. _Oh,_ she thought, wondering, _I am in his bed. Their bed._ The thought should have shocked her, but somehow, it didn't. Perhaps she had used up all her horror today. She should have remembered if anything truly terrible had happened here, after all — not that it would. She knew Prince Oberyn better, now, than to believe he would take advantage of her. Even if he wanted her — which, since he had Ellaria, did not seem likely. No matter what the lady said when she was being kind to Sansa, about him being jealous and all. It was only a bed, and an empty one. Well, empty except for her...but, then, she hardly counted, really. She felt so empty herself these days, or she had, before they found her. It was not such a strange feeling to have again.

Dozing, dreamily, she watched the light that came through the shutters of the bedchamber's windows, and listened to the soft voices from nearby. Eventually she came to recognize them as Ellaria's and Oberyn's voices. They had stayed close by her, she realized, close enough that she could even make out words. They were afraid for her, they wished to be near. The thought helped to thaw, a little, the cold that had seized her when she first woke this morning.

 _You're thoroughly enamored already._ She could hear Lady Ellaria's words — and the Prince's, too, _I dare say no more than you are_ — and in her dreamy state, they seemed as clear as if they were speaking right beside her. Who could they be talking of? She smiled, remembering some of the lords and ladies from the feast last night, wondering which of them could be so lucky as to have them both enamored.

 _She is three-and-ten,_ she heard Oberyn say then, and still, it took her a moment to understand.

It did not frighten her as it might have, once, even a few days ago. It did not seem real enough to be frightening, for one thing. She must be dreaming still, that was all.

But oh, what a dream! How kind of the gods, to let her have something so sweet, after all that had happened. "Thank you, all you gods," she whispered to the pillow. Which of them might it have been? She had thanked them all at dinner last night, she remembered, and Mother Rhoyne as well. The only things about this day that had brought her back, a little, to herself, that had felt real, were like a river, warm and gentle. Perhaps it _was_ Mother Rhoyne she ought to thank, after all; she had been the one they brought with them. She was an old god too, in a way, Sansa thought, for Nymeria had brought her when they fled Valyria.

Pondering gods, she began to drift away to sleep again. Suddenly, she remembered, jerked a little, waking, and the memory of why she was here came with it. But a few more moments, and she managed to drift off again. Recalling her prayers, she added, "And please be gentle with Ser Dontos. He did not deserve it."

Perhaps it was thinking of gods that took her to her next dream. _Lady?_ someone whispered, and she could not say who — Lady was dead, she was dead, she was lost from the others, there had been six of them once, but now the silent white one and the little brown one were lost beyond the end of the world, and her gray brother was gone, just _gone_ , and she was — she was gone as well, wasn't she? But — but —

 _Lady?_ It was a tree who had whispered it, but trees did not speak, not with man-words, it could not have been a tree —

 _Sansa?_ And now she turned, she turned, there was a tree, a white tree with red leaves dripping down like blood and a face that she knew, but how could she? And how could it know her?

 _It_ is _you! You lost your wolf, we thought — Shaggy and Summer howled when she came back, we buried her, how can you —_ '

"Bran?" she whispered, and the tree smiled at her, a little boy's smile, so much younger than the faces of the weirwoods! "I dreamed you," she said, "there wasn't a weirwood, there's no weirwood in the Red Keep, but Father took us to the godswood anyway, and I dreamed you, and I saw you smiling, and — and you're dead," she remembered, but it did not seem to hurt quite so much, not in this warm, safe place.

 _Oh,_ her brother said, sighing. _Yes, that's what they say. We're not though, you know, not at all. It's just safer this way. But how are you here? You lost your wolf. Unless..._

"Unless?" she asked, for her brother had worked out how to talk to her through a tree, so she supposed there was no shame in asking him what he meant.

 _Well,_ he said, _there was a bird one time, when I was learning to change — there was someone else in her, and they say it's because she was like us, sort of, once, and then her person died. So her person went into her, only...only maybe it could work the other way, too, and if she had died first, she could have gone into her person._

"Oh," it was her turn to say, and she gasped, and the idea, the mere idea, it warmed her so! She hardly dared speak it aloud, but Bran was little and didn't quite seem to have puzzled it all out yet, even as clever as he was. So Sansa said it, she dared to say it, dared to risk it all melting away and turning into lions laughing at her: "Do you think — do you think Lady's still alive, then? With me?"

 _I guess so,_ the tree who was her brother said, and he looked so puzzled, so confused, the way he did when Maester Luwin gave him a problem and Arya would strain her shoulder raising her hand and trying to get his attention, and Sansa started to try to get his attention but then decided to try and whisper the answer to Bran instead. He was just little, it wasn't his fault he didn't know, after all, and what was the difference between Maester Luwin telling him something yesterday and Sansa whispering it to him today?

Only this time she did not know the answer. This time, the best guess was that he knew it.

 _Anyway,_ he said, after a moment, _we're all quite well, you see. I spoke with Jon, too, this way, or at least I think I did. I saw him, just as I see you. I suppose it might have been a dream._

"But this is my dream," Sansa said, and the little weirwood face of her brother frowned.

 _No, it's_ my _dream,_ he said. _Just because you're bigger and you're to be queen —_

"But I'm not to be queen," she said, "you know that, don't you?"

 _No,_ he said, surprised. _Truly? I'm sorry. I know you wanted to be queen._

"Oh, but I didn't," she said. "At first I did, but not for long. Oh, Bran, Joffrey was awful, don't you know that? This is my dream, you must know that."

 _No, it's my dream,_ he said again. _That's why you're not going to marry him, because he's awful, so I'm dreaming that I won't have to have him as a brother. We're the ones who hated him, you liked him. You're going to be queen._

"No," she said, feeling half a child again, so annoyed that her stupid little brother wouldn't listen, "it's _my_ dream, because Joffrey _was_ awful. You were all right, I guess, if you hated him. I should have hated him, I should have, I was so stupid. You all could see it, but I couldn't, and it's all my fault, I'm the one who told them, it's my fault — "

 _No, that's stupid,_ her brother said. _He was nice to you, after all. I mean, I guess you were a little stupid, but girls are always stupid. Mostly. I know one who's all right, I suppose,_ he said, and trees couldn't blush, but it almost seemed that he did.

"You were always such a sweet boy," she said, "when we could get you down on the ground long enough. You must tell me who she is, then. I told Jon how to talk to girls, and he told Robb. I can tell you, too."

 _She's not like most girls, though,_ her brother said, _she's like — she's a little like Arya, I guess, except she's different, too —_

"Oh, you _do_ like her!" Sansa clapped her hands. "You can't say how nice she is, how special. You like her too much. Oh, Bran, it's just like a story, she's perfect to you."

 _Shut up,_ he said. _Your stupid love stories were always the most boring. That's silly. I don't love her. No more than I do you, anyway, or Arya, or — or Jon or Rickon,_ he said, decisively. _Or...or even Old Nan, or Hodor!_

"If you say so," Sansa said, and she half sung it, she was so pleased. Boys were always so silly, even Bran, and Jon, and Robb, and no doubt Rickon would be too. They didn't know _anything_.

 _Shut up,_ her brother said again, and frowned at her, but she did not fear the tree now, for it was only her brother, and there was another beside it, now that she looked, that looked more like Father, except a girl, a little girl, and she knew it was Arya, and then another on her other side, which was Rickon, complaining that he didn't like his supper, and to the other side of Bran was one that slept, and then to its side was another, still awake, looking about, and Jon's face in it smiled at her briefly, wonderingly. Weirwood leaves were red, red as blood, but Jon's were a brighter red, even orange here and there, or black, so that he seemed to wear a crown of dark fire.

The only one who did not so much as look at her was the sleeping one, Robb, but that did not upset her the way it should have. Was that wicked? She did not think so, for he was only sleeping, sleeping too heavily even for her and Bran calling each other stupid to wake him, or Rickon, tired and grumpy and entirely displeased with his supper. Behind her flowed a river, warm and shallow here, wider than she could see across.

 

When she woke, she could smell something good, and her stomach rumbled before she could quite remember why she wasn't in her own bed. Even when she did remember, she didn't feel so distant and cold as she had when she first woke this morning. The light had changed, gone softer and more goldeny-orange, and someone had lit a few of the candles in the room while she slept.

They had left her in the prince's room, she realized, after blinking about her for a few moments. The door to his solar was half-closed, but all was still now, except for the distant sounds of ladies' voices drifting in through the window. Someone had left a pitcher of water next to the bed, and an empty glass, which she filled and drank from gratefully. Feeling more awake now, she got to her feet, and found that her robe had been folded neatly on a chair nearby. Her stomach grumbled as she put it on, and she followed the nice smells of food to the solar.

The silence had fooled her; Prince Oberyn was at his writing table, looking over some papers. But as soon as she opened the door, his eyes were on her. "My lady," he said, jumping to his feet. "Is aught amiss? Do you require anything?"

"No, my prince," she said, flustered, trying to curtsey as best she could in the robe. "Forgive me, I was hungry, and smelled — I did not know you were here, or I should have dressed properly. Pardon me," she said, backing towards the bedchamber once more.

Prince Oberyn was too fast for her, however, and caught her arm. "Nonsense, Sansa. You had no reason to think you must be dressed, and the robe preserves your modesty quite well. Even if it did not, I do have seven daughters; I _can_ see a maid in her sleeping shift without going mad with lust."

She felt herself redden more, ashamed that he might think her so distrusting, after everything. "Forgive me, Prince Oberyn, if I gave you cause to think — "

"You did not," he said, guiding her, gently but firmly, over to the table. "It was a jest. Not a very good one, it seems, for it was meant to help put you at your ease. I fear I have made a terrible mess of it, so I hope _you_ will forgive _me_. Sit, eat. Ellaria is in the gardens with a few of the other ladies, but if you would feel more comfortable with her, I know she would not object, or else I can summon a maid to help you dress, and you can join them. I had a few matters to attend to before tomorrow, however, and now I am glad, for I hate to think of you waking to an empty room after all that you have gone through today."

She managed to smile a little, barely, as he piled a plate with cheese and fruit, and poured wine from the pitcher for her. "I am quite content here," she said, and meant it.

Sitting down on the other side of the table, he studied her, until she felt herself pinken again under his scrutiny and set herself to nibbling at the food. "You look better," he said, at last. "I had feared...but I should have given you more credit. I knew you were a strong lady already."

"You are too kind," she said, for she was not certain how else to respond to that. "I am sorry to have given you cause for trouble on my behalf."

"Nothing a man does on your behalf could ever be counted trouble, Sansa," he told her, his voice soft. She looked up from her food, and found that he was still studying her, his dark eyes warm and gentle. In spite of herself, she managed to smile, just a little, and when he smiled back, something in her felt just a little less ragged. The two of them sat in comfortable silence as she ate and he retrieved the letters he had been reading.

"Ah," he said after a moment, "I nearly forgot — a raven arrived from the Water Gardens, with a letter from my brother. But there was another, as well, for you..." He shuffled through the papers, frowning.

"From Prince Doran?" she asked, startled. What he might have to say to _her_ , she could not possibly imagine.

Oberyn must have heard something in her voice, for he looked up, bemused. "Would that be so strange? You are an honored guest of our House, after all. But as it happens, this was from the Princess Myrcella. Doran says that he and I are both under strict instructions not to read it, for she has informed us that it is quite improper to read a lady's personal correspondence, but if you think it might be..."

Sansa was already shaking her head. "No, Myrcella was always very sweet. Nothing like Joffrey at all."

"That was our experience with her, when first she arrived, but...well, I cannot be too careful, it would seem," he said, with a bitterness that was so at odds with his easy manner that, instinctively, she tried to recall their conversation, to determine what she might have said or done to insult him.

"I — I am very sorry to have given you cause to think so," she managed at last, and he blinked at her, apparently baffled.

"Why should you apologize to me, my lady?" he asked. "It is I who ought to beg your forgiveness. Only days since I gave you my word that you were safe here, someone has managed to make a liar of me."

"But I _am_ safe here," she said, and was almost shocked at herself, however softly she might have said it.

Prince Oberyn did not answer her right away, and when she looked up, she saw that he was looking at her again, and something about him looked so sad and tired that it made her heart ache for him.

"Do you truly feel that way?" he asked, softly. "No — forgive me, my lady. Ellaria warned me not to make this into your burden to bear; you have enough of those already."

"But I _do_ ," she said. Her voice was a little stronger this time, though she blushed to hear how it shook. "I _do_ feel safe here. I feel safe, and honored, and — and cherished," she managed, recalling what he had said to her at his table last night. And it was the truth, maybe it was only the dreams she'd had that made her feel so much stronger than she had this morning, but she had not had half so many wonderful dreams in two years at the Red Keep as she had in two weeks here. That must mean _something_ , mustn't it?

He could hardly be expected to care about a silly girl's dreams, however, so she did not embarrass herself by trying to explain that. He did not press her further, thankfully, but he held her gaze a little longer, and when he smiled, there was something heavier to it, softer. At last, he looked back down at the papers before him, and said, "Ah, here you are," plucking one out from the rest.

Sansa took it, but did not open it just yet, only gazed at the sun-and-spear seal. "Is Myrcella happy in Dorne, do you think?" she asked suddenly. It was the closest she could come to asking _might I be happy there?_

She could not tell, looking up, whether the prince understood what she was really asking, but he considered her for a moment before answering. "I do," he said. "She and Trystane suit each other well — as you say, she is a sweet child, and so is he. She near worships my niece, too, and my daughter Tyene, and they are quite fond of her as well, and my little Loree near worships _her_ in turn. She misses her little brother, and her mother too, but even then, she only speaks of how they must come and visit her in Dorne."

"I am glad to hear it," Sansa said, and she was, for Myrcella's sake and her own. The prince considered her a moment more, even as she turned her eyes back to the letter, but he did not speak, and she heard him return eventually to his own correspondence.

Cracking the seal, she was surprised by how much it warmed her heart, to see the little princess's neat handwriting. _Whatever awaits me in Dorne, I will not be entirely without friends there, at least,_ she thought.

_Lady Sansa, Prince Doran has had a letter that you are under his brother's protection until my uncle Tyrion is free, and I am very glad to hear it. He and Lady Sand are very kind and I am sure you will love them as much as I do, and that they will love you as much as I do too. Prince Doran says that he does not think Prince Oberyn has a singer so I said that he must tell him to find one because I recall how you like music. If he does not do it you must tell Ellaria, or else write back to me and I shall send him a letter myself, for Prince Doran says that he is not always good at following instructions, but I am to be his princess after all. Will you and Uncle Tyrion come to Dorne soon? Prince Doran says he should like to meet you both, and I think you would like it here. I suppose you may be too grown-up to play in the Water Gardens but no one is there at night, so I shall make Ser Arys take us then and he will keep it a secret. There are lots of lemons here you know and I have already told Prince Doran and Princess Arianne that they must make sure the cooks know how to make lemon cakes because I know they are your favorites. If you see Tommen please give him all my love and the same to Mother and my uncle Tyrion as well. I hope I shall see you very soon._

"Is it a pleasant letter, then?" Oberyn asked, and she started a little. He had been so quiet, she had nearly forgotten that he was there. "Forgive me, my lady," he said, as she looked up again. "It only did me good to see you smiling again."

* * *

**Oberyn**

Not long after Sansa had awakened, Daemon came to him to say that a visitor requested his presence. "They can call again later," Oberyn said, scarcely looking up from his letter to Doran. Or, rather, what would become his letter to Doran, eventually, if he could manage to get everything down into some kind of order.

"The man says it's urgent, my prince," Daemon said, and there was something else about his voice that made Oberyn look up. He looked puzzled — not truly worried, thank the gods, for Oberyn did not know how much they might bear — but vaguely confused. It was enough to pique Oberyn's curiosity, at least, and, bidding Daemon keep Lady Sansa company in his absence — she protested, but Daemon, with his disarming smile, put her back at her ease quickly enough, and Oberyn did not have to tell the truth, that having Daemon stay with her was as much for Oberyn's own peace of mind as for her safety.

The fellow was downstairs, in one of the smaller rooms, and there was something familiar about him, the sort of thing that nagged and worried at one's mind, but he could not put a name to his face. "I understand you have some business, ser?" he asked.

"Aye, m'prince, that I have," the man said, and then, when Oberyn had pulled the door shut behind him, his voice changed, going higher, softer. "I thank you for deigning to see me. I was quite afraid I might have to reveal myself to your handsome squire. I mean to cast no aspersions on the fellow's trustworthiness, to be sure, but a disguise becomes rather useless once enough people know what lies beneath it."

By the speech, it could hardly be anyone else, and yet Oberyn still only half-believed that he was correct in his guess. "Lord Varys?" he asked, at last, managing — barely — to keep his voice low.

The man smiled. "As I say, my prince, I have a request for you. An invitation, as a matter of fact. Someone wishes to meet with you tonight, very urgently."

"And you will give me no further detail than that, I assume? You will understand, I am sure, if I am not inclined to take you up on this invitation."

"Quite understandable, given what has transpired today, of course. I do hope poor Lady Sansa is well? So many blows to her tender heart already..." He sighed. "But no, you will be quite safe, for whatever my word is worth. It is only words this person wishes to exchange, nothing more dangerous than that."

"Ah, yes," Oberyn said, "and you of all people know how little danger words can pose, to be sure."

Another little smile. "To be sure, my prince. But I think you would find this conversation interesting. At the very least, diverting, and in such dark times as these, we must find our entertainments where we might, hm?"

Oberyn sighed, but he could not pretend that he was not intrigued. "Will you at least tell me where we are bound?"

"Oh, just an inn, much like any other. Nothing as befits your station, to be sure, but not so dreadful as some in this city. By all means, bring a man or two with you, though I think the greatest danger you will face will be the innkeep's beer. Very strong, yet so smooth that a man hardly realizes just _how_ strong until he wakes up the next morning having gambled away three months' wages."

"I shall beware, then," Oberyn said. "Very well. Let me fetch my coat and my squires, then, and see to my ladies."

Ellaria was still in the gardens with some of the other women, but when he drew her aside and told her, briefly, of his errand, she made her apologies and followed him to his rooms quickly enough. Taking up his coat and daggers, he sent Daemon off to find Ser Arron, and bade Sansa and Ellaria farewell. Sansa gave him a tired, shy smile, but Ellaria scarce paid him any mind as she exclaimed over Myrcella's letter, which Sansa had showed her. Satisfied that she would be safe, he made his way back down to Varys.

 

It was not far enough to be worth the bother of saddling horses, and from what he could see, the inn was just as Varys had promised — unremarkable, but clean and pleasant-seeming enough. "Dare I ask if you know aught of whose work Ser Dontos was?" Oberyn asked as Daemon and Arron laughed and jested with one of the serving wenches. He was not fooled by their merriment, however; they would be studying the place, just as he was. "Or perhaps, more to the point, dare I ask if you will tell me aught?"

The eunuch's lips went thin for a moment, and he sighed. "Alas, I am disturbingly ill-informed on the question. The work itself was done by some guard, but one man says it was Olly, and Olly says it was Harry, and Harry says it was one of the kitchen girls _dressed_ as a guard, and in the end, no one knows who this figure might have been, or, more importantly, who might have paid him to do this dreadful thing."

Oberyn nodded, then asked, "If you did know, would you tell me?"

"You are most unfair, my prince," he said, sorrowful. "Why, I have delivered a great gift to your family, and here are the only thanks I am to receive: suspicion and mistrust."

"A gift?" Oberyn asked, annoyed. "You speak as if you delivered us a horse."

That seemed to amuse him. "I beg you will forgive me if I seem callous. I forget, sometimes, that there are still men of honor in the realm. The last one I saw lost his head on the steps of Baelor's, and _he_ was only here to replace the one before that."

"You flatter me, Varys."

"I suppose 'tis only my habit," he said. "At any rate, here we are. Do be careful, my prince; this is a respectable enough little place, but of course, sometimes the ordinary things can be far more dangerous than the uglier ones. I'm sure you're more than equal to it, and to the person who summoned you, but it would cause so many problems for any number of people if anything ill were to befall you."

"And still, you will give me no clue as to who this person is?" he asked, amused in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that he was also checking to see that his daggers were where they ought to be.

"Oh, I should hate to ruin the surprise." Oberyn almost thought that he smirked.

Daemon and Arron, meanwhile, had settled in a corner of the common room where they could easily watch both stairs and door. Oberyn glimpsed one of the girls bringing them beer before Varys led him up a few flights of stairs and down a narrow, dim little hallway, finally arriving at a door as nondescript as all the others. He knocked twice, and when a woman called "Come in," Oberyn's interest rose a little further.

She was near as well-disguised as Varys, clad in a common serving wench's rough linens, her hair beneath a kerchief. With the evening sun behind her in the grimy little window, there wasn't enough light to make out her features. But the linens were too clean to be truly hers, and when she turned, the golden light caught in her eyes and made them flare as green as wildfire.

"Prince Oberyn," the queen said, as he stepped across the threshold. He heard the door close behind him, and thought he heard footsteps as Varys retreated, but who could say for sure?

Guessing the direction of his thoughts, the queen shrugged. "He'll be listening, I've no doubt. If not himself, then I'm sure he's got one or another of his little birds nearby. But I had need of someone to bring you here, so I expect he would have found out somehow. Why not skip the middleman?"

"Sensible," he said, bowing. "But I hope Your Grace will not think me impertinent if I ask what this is about, and why the secrecy was needed at all."

"Impertinence is permitted to princes," she said, with a smile that was not a smile at all, taking up one of the cups and filling it with beer. "It is queens who are not allowed it. As to your question, would you have answered a summons to the Red Keep? One made in secret, requesting that you come alone, or with no more than your squire at your side?"

"Not eagerly," he admitted. "But why should it have been at the Keep? Would the gossip be so shocking if you had come to call on me, instead?"

"I hope you will give me at least as much credit for sense as I give you, my prince," she said, pressing the mug into his hand. "Myself, alone, in the house of a man whose family despises mine, who shelters a traitor's daughter, and one with little more cause to love me than her new — guardian, did you call yourself, when last I saw you?"

"We did not leave our customs behind when we came to King's Landing, Your Grace, and one of those customs is to honor the rights of our guests," he said, which was very foolish, but then, he was weary, and wary. "And Lady Stark _did_ love you once, you know." Whether that was meant to soften his words or sharpen them further, he could not have said.

Cersei's mouth tightened, but then she surprised him. "I owe you an apology," she said, and so, as soon as he was recovered from the shock, he wondered what trap she meant to spring. "For my behavior the other day, and my words," she added, reluctantly. "I cannot say I regret the sentiments behind them, but I might have been more courteous."

"I am a father, Your Grace," he said. "Should I have held one of my daughters, should I have watched her fight for her last breath, I should be as hungry for vengeance as you, I do not doubt. Indeed, I am a brother, too, and more than the Council, that same hunger is what brings me to this city in the first place. Such vengeance must fall on the proper heads, however. I will not recount all the evidence that has convinced me of Sansa Stark's innocence — this trial takes up enough of my time already, and it has not even properly begun yet — but suffice it to say that I _am_ convinced." He refrained from mentioning that he could not have blamed her if she _had_ done it herself, much less that all he had learned from her, the way she still flinched, the distant look in her eyes this morning, left him sorry that _he_ could not have done the deed.

"So you say," the queen said, studying him quite as openly as he was studying her. "It seems to me, however, that her innocence, as you call it, is quite the opportunity for Dorne. And more than Dorne — a comely maid, the heir to Winterfell, in your household? I do not think I am presumptuous in saying that sounds like a fine match for you, my prince. And with your brother having two sons, it seems unlikely that you will ever inherit, but I dare say the North would be some consolation..."

"My brother has three children," was all Oberyn said. "And he — and they — are more than welcome to the high seats in the Tower of the Sun; I have little taste for the business of ruling. But as to my nephews, I should confess, your daughter has only a slightly better chance of being the wife of the Prince of Dorne than I have of ruling; my niece, Arianne, as Doran's eldest child, comes before either of his sons. Though, of course, talking of inheritance — you know, by Dornish law, my younger nephew ought to sit beside Queen Myrcella, first of her name."

The Queen had poured out a cup of beer for herself as he spoke, and though she did not look up, he could see enough of her face to know that she was listening. Without time to school her expression into one more fitting, he saw the hunger flash in her eyes when raised her cup for a delicate sip. But she only said, "I had forgotten."

Oberyn chuckled at that. "Your Grace, we both have other business to attend to; I have a household and you have a kingdom."

"A kingdom? You are too kind, my prince; I have only a son," she said, in as soft and sweet a voice as any dove's, but he had seen too much of her to be fooled by that.

"You have a son," he agreed, "who is hardly weaned, and who has a kingdom. We shall never love each other, Your Grace, but at the least, I think we understand each other too well to pretend either of us is an idiot."

She turned back to the little window, and its view, and he was about to declare himself finished with this whole business and walk out of the room when she sighed, and her shoulders slumped lower than he had ever seen. She turned back to him then, and the softness in her face this time seemed less false somehow. _She looks less beautiful, strictly speaking,_ he thought, _there are more lines about her eyes and mouth, but she is more attractive now, I think. She is still lovely, but it is a truer loveliness._ That was enough, for the moment, to stay him — not the new beauty about her, but the honesty of it, the sadness and weariness and ineffectual anger.

"I am ambitious, my prince," she said at last, after she took a long draught from her beer. Her voice was softer than when she had been playing at a dove's coo, and yet he believed her this time. "I shall not apologize for it. Perhaps I had been better born a Dornishwoman. I seems to me you have more room for such as me."

"We do," he said, risking a sip of the beer himself. He did not think she would try to poison him — not yet, anyway, when he might still see to it that her brother lost his head — but he would not have thought she might seek him out as she had tonight, either. He added, "And so does the North, from all I have seen."

She laughed a little at that. There were lines about her eyes, her bright, sweet eyes, and though he supposed most would say they made her look less beautiful, he had never felt so attracted to her, not even when his mama had brought him and Elia to the Rock all those years ago, when he was barely old enough to know that his cock was good for more than pissing.

"I wonder sometimes," she said, picking up her cup and approaching the table to top it off once more. "If we had switched...or if our men had, I suppose; we ladies would never have had so much choice in the matter. Catelyn Tully would have made a fine queen for Robert. If he said Lyanna Stark's name on top of _her_ , I've no doubt she would have gritted her teeth and borne it. Indeed, I expect she would have willed her hair darker, her eyes more gray, to make herself look more Starkish, using nothing but sheer force of Tully dutifulness. And if I had married Ned Stark..."

"I do not think Your Grace was made for the north," he said, but he was not laughing as he said it now.

She gave a soft chuckle at that, took another drink of her beer...and finally looked at him again. "No more than you were, I think, my prince."

Oberyn could not help but chuckle, too. "I have known winters before, but nothing like theirs, true enough. But, then, Sansa Stark was not made for Dorne, originally, and I think we shall be bound for there once all this is over." _If I take her to my own home, it seems only meet that I should return the favor someday._ "Indeed, I am quite content to let the Boltons have Winterfell for the nonce. Or perhaps, more properly, I should say I am quite content, for the nonce, to let Winterfell have the Boltons. The castle is not in a fit state for habitation right now, as I understand...I wonder what will be left of them come spring?"

"Why trouble yourself with Winterfell at all, whatever the season?" Cersei asked, and something in her voice made him think they were nearing the heart of this little rendezvous. "Why not leave the North to the Northmen?"

"Oh, but I am sure Your Grace has heard that I have traveled a great deal," he said lightly, not actually drinking from his glass. "I have never seen the North, though, which, more and more, seems a great lapse on my part. And perhaps I _would_ like Winterfell, now that you mention it."

"If it's Winterfell you want, there are easier ways to get it," she said.

"Oh?" he asked. He said it more because he knew he ought, because he knew Doran would, but truth be told, now that he thought on the matter a little, the only reason he cared half a whit what became of Winterfell was because Sansa Stark cared.

"Women cannot take the black," Cersei said, and however she tried, she could not quite hide the satisfaction in her voice. Perhaps that was why she turned away from him, gazed out the window. "Though if you are so determined that she should have her miserable life, there is always exile — she does pretty enough needlework, so I suppose she could manage a living as a seamstress in the Free Cities, or a singer, or some fisherman's wife. She would do quite well as a courtesan, but that Stark pride of hers would never allow it, I'm sure."

"Conveniently," he said, when she did not, "courtesans in the Free Cities are far better guarded than seamstresses, or singers, or fisherman's wives. An assassin would come a good deal cheaper."

"You are unfair, my prince," she said, and she turned away from the window, drew a little closer to him before looking up and meeting his eyes at last. "Certainly, if my husband willed it, I should allow the girl to live."

He had expected the offer to come up at some point while he was in the city — Lord Tywin had hinted at such already — but still, the manner of it startled him. He supposed he had thought she would make some attempt at seduction first; why else, really, would they meet here, in disguise, in some filthy inn? Perhaps that surprise was why he couldn't help the laugh that burst out of him.

To her credit, the queen did not seem offended; she smiled herself, in fact, and gave half a shrug, as though she knew just how this looked. "My father had suggested the match to me before you came to the city," she said, and laughed a little herself as she did. "As well as Willas Tyrell and — and others." There was a little twist to her mouth, sheepish, as though she were any ordinary woman, as though she had spilled a glass of wine or put her dress on backwards, and were laughing at her own silliness.

"Others?" he asked, mildly, as if he were any ordinary man whose lady had spilled a glass of wine or put her dress on backwards.

She sighed, the smile still playing at the corner of her eyes, and ducked her head, and finally mumbled, "Balon Greyjoy," and set them both to laughing. It was a real laugh for him, in truth, and he almost thought that it was for her, as well. _She is beautiful like this,_ he thought briefly, sadly, pityingly. _So much more beautiful than as a queen. Perhaps if she had been any ordinary woman, she might have been happy._

But of course, if she had been any ordinary woman, if he had been any ordinary man, they would not be here, having this conversation.

"Tell me true, Your Grace," he said at last, reaching for the beer and refilling his cup, "would you really be content to let her scratch out some dull little life in the Free Cities? Would you really be happy to marry me, to remove to Winterfell — knowing, of course, that my paramour would sit on my other side at feasts?"

"My late husband had women aplenty," she said, sitting down on the bed and sighing. "And bastards, too. Women can bear a great deal, my prince."

"And must, particularly when the Lannisters have anything to say in the matter," he said.

She stiffened, but did not close up entirely, for which he had to give her some credit. "You are not wrong," she said, and did not flinch away from his gaze.

He sighed. "The truth, now, Your Grace, I beg you. We may never love each other, but I think — "

"We could, _I_ think," she said, with a queer little twist of her mouth, as she gazed over her glass. "We could have, I suspect, had my father sent me back to Dorne with you when first your mother made her offer — that would have been easier. But," she said, with a lovely sadness and softness, "I think we still could. A paramour, bastards — I confess I do not know Dornish ways very well, but I understand these things are less insulting from a Dornish husband than one from elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. And...well, I'll not deny that you chose well, my prince," she added. She looked up at him again, from under lowered lids. "She is a lovely creature. No man could deny it — and no woman, either, I dare say."

"Perhaps I should have brought her," he said, but he felt no real stirring at the idea, now that he gave it any thought. "She has always had a penchant for golden hair, you know, and we have near as few of those in Dorne as redheads. At any rate — perhaps you are right. Perhaps we could love each other, eventually. Say that we did. Would that be enough for Sansa Stark to live? If, for the sake of whatever love might possibly grow between us, I asked you to let her go, leave her in whatever peace she might find in exile, would that be enough?"

She said nothing for some moments, and he was about to thank her and depart, his question answered, when she spoke once again. "Would you do less, for your own child?" she asked. "You are a father, my prince; indeed, you have been a father for longer than I have been a mother. If your daughter were murdered, and you could have her killer's head for a marriage and a castle, would that not seem a small price to pay? And then if your new wife, the one you got in the bargain, begged you to stay your hand, to let that killer walk free, can you truly say that you would?"

"No," he said, and it came quite easily, for he continued, "not so long as I was certain the price I paid _was_ for the murderer's head, and not some innocent's."

The Queen surprised him then; she did not rage or scoff, she only narrowed her eyes a little. _There is more life in her eyes than in her father's, at least,_ Oberyn reflected. After a moment of searching his gaze with her own, she said, at last, "She has truly convinced you, then. Perhaps she is cleverer than I gave her credit for."

"Two things can be true at once," he said easily. "You have most certainly underestimated her; she _is_ more than passing clever. But yes, I remain quite convinced of her innocence in your son's murder. But even if I did not," he continued, "I have taken the girl into my household. She has drunk my wine, eaten my bread and salt. As I told you earlier, such things still have meaning for us down in Dorne."

"Ah. I would have expected you to be more direct, my prince; you have such a reputation for boldness. You mean to accuse me of having the blood of her traitor mother and brother on my hands." The Queen refilled her own cup, rolling her eyes. "I shall not claim to be such a picture of insipid Maidenly purity as the blessed Sansa Stark, but I had nothing to do with the Red Wedding, at least. How could I? You know my father. You have seen how high I rank in his estimation." Her hand fluttered, for a moment, to the yellowing bruise on her cheek. "He would never guess that I might have counsel on such matters."

"And if he did? Tell me, if your father had brought the scheme before you, what would your counsel have been, Your Grace?" he asked, sipping his beer.

She flushed then, and did not meet his eyes. If the gods, in all their wisdom, had created another seven thousand worlds, and in one of those worlds he had been tempted, for one moment, by what she offered, he hoped that would have ended it even for that craven version of himself.

But all he said was, "I see."

"There was no need for the Lady Catelyn to die," she said, though her cheeks were still pink, as though she knew quite well how feeble an excuse this was. "She went mad at the end, they say; she killed Lord Frey's grandson. Who knows what else she might have done if she had not been stopped?"

"Catelyn Stark's son was murdered before her," Oberyn said. "Is every mother mad, who watches her child — her firstborn son — die a violent death at the hands of his supposed allies? Should no mother be trusted, who has seen such horror?"

She laughed then, a sweet, sad, quiet laugh. "Well struck, my prince," she said, not bothering to hide her bitterness.

The victory gave him no pleasure. He set his cup down, barely drunk, and bowed. "I thank you, Your Grace, for your time, and your very generous offer. I pray the gods will forgive me for whatever I did to make you think I might agree to it."

"I wish you joy of your prize," she said, her voice cold. Now that it had vanished, he was surprised to realize that her gentleness, her warmth, may have been real. It did not change his mind, of course, but it was certainly interesting.

"Ah," she added, as he pulled on his coat. "Such a fine coat, my prince, but if you'll allow me a piece of advice, you'll need one much heavier. Even in summer, Winterfell was cold — near as cold as my little brother found his bride's sweet little cunt."

His fists curled at his side, and only the knowledge that it was precisely what she wanted stopped him from dealing some retort, or else raising a bruise on her other cheek to match the one her father had given her.

Instead, without turning back from the door, he tried to keep his voice as level as his brother's would be. "Sansa Stark is hardly the only lady who is cleverer than men credit her, of course," he answered. "You said that you think I was not made for the North. You may be right. But my niece will rule Dorne after my brother, and her future good-sister is quite fond of Lady Stark, if the letter she sent was any indication. I have another nephew besides, and my brother's bannermen have many boys among them...and who knows where things may stand by spring, when marching will be easier? This summer was long, Your Grace, and a long summer means longer still until the next. If, come spring, I find that I cannot bear the cold anymore, well, there will be others of my family, younger and stronger, who might."

He looked back before he shut the door behind him, and though he did not feel anything really like happiness, he found himself smiling as he added, "Summer is some time gone, my dear lady Lannister. And as they say, winter is coming."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhh not to jinx it but I think this thing might actually be close to done? The next chapter is about half-written, I just need to actually figure out how to get in everything I need to and tie it all up. Possibly there will be an epilogue at some point, too? SHHHHHHHH NO ONE JINX IT.

**Sansa**

After she had eaten, and shown Myrcella's letter to Ellaria, the lady asked whether she might like to take a turn about the gardens. "I find that fresh air can help, and most of the others have gone now, so you need not worry about dressing fine or making conversation. We shall simply enjoy the evening. But after the day you have had, and with what awaits on the morrow, if you do not feel — "

"But I do," Sansa said. It was true. She had slept most of the day away, and though she still felt strange and light and shivery, she did not feel so awfully _cold_ and _empty_ as she had this morning, when first she woke. Even the thought of facing the judges tomorrow did not frighten her so much as it might have. Her dreams had given her strength, and Myrcella's letter had helped to warm her further. "I think I should like that."

Ellaria smiled. "I am glad to hear it," she said, and stroked Sansa's cheek. "You look much better, my dear. You were so pale..."

"Prince Oberyn said the same," Sansa said, and Ellaria's smile grew wider.

"You are very dear to us already, you see," she said, and though she felt her cheeks go pink, somehow, this time, Sansa managed not to argue, not to say that they were too kind. They were, but with all that they had done for her — it was not all just courtesy. They _did_ care for her, truly they did.

"I ought to dress," was all she said, though, and hurried back into the bedchamber. A maid had brought some of her things in, put them on a chair behind the screen in the corner. The dress was simple but fine, of linen soft as moleskin in a soft buttery yellow. It made her think of sunshine, and the sweet dream that she'd had earlier, of Ellaria and Oberyn talking of her, and there was a pretty bronze belt to go around it.

Ellaria did not seem to mind that she did not speak much, and talked of her daughters, and the Water Gardens. When Sansa mentioned Myrcella's letter, about sneaking in during the night, she laughed. "Never fear, I shall keep her plan a secret," she said, still chuckling.

When they returned to Prince Oberyn's chambers, Ellaria still did not let go of her arm, but sat with her on the chaise once more, telling her stories that she had learned from her mother's mother, a Lyseni.

She did not think she would sleep at all that night, but she must have done, for suddenly the lady's voice woke her. "My dear," she was saying softly, stroking Sansa's hair, but for all her gentleness Sansa still woke with a gasp. The windows were closed now, and there was rain falling softly in the gardens, so that all was green and gray and misty.

"I am sorry," Ellaria said, drawing back, smiling bravely. "I would not have woken you, you seemed so happy in your sleep, but the other judges will be here in a couple of hours, and I thought you would prefer to have time to dress and break your fast."

"Yes, my lady." It was a reflex, as she blinked the sleep from her eyes and tried to slow her racing heart. "Yes," she said again, seeing Ellaria's dark eyes clearly now. "Thank you."

She was still in the prince's solar, she realized, looking around. Ellaria had covered her with a blanket and slipped a pillow under her head, but this was the same chaise where they had sat last night, talking softly. "You let me sleep here?" she asked. "I'm sorry, I ought to have — "

"Nonsense," Ellaria said, helping her to her feet. "If I had a penny for every time one of my girls begged just one more story from Sarella and fell asleep almost before she drew breath to tell it, I would be richer than any Lannister. That is why I always insist upon the most comfortable furnishings. What a decadent wretch you must think me!" She laughed as she said it, smoothing Sansa's hair.

The laugh was a little too easy, though, a little too bright, more brass than the sweet golden laughter that Sansa had come (she realized, now) to rely upon from Ellaria. Sansa could not bring herself to laugh this morning, but she found she could smile, at least. The laughter faded from Ellaria's eyes when she did, but she did not say anything, only sighed and stroked her cheek. "Come," she said gently. "I shall dress your hair myself. It is a silly thing, I am sure; no doubt Shella or Zia or Cass or any of the other maids could do something much more interesting with it, but I am not so terrible, and I hope you will indulge me. And furthermore, I cannot expect that you have much appetite, but I must insist that you at least eat something — fruit, or eggs, or a bit of cheese. This will be all the harder on an empty stomach."

 _Or else I shall eat something, and then I shall be sick all over the judges,_ Sansa thought.

Ellaria drew Sansa into the prince's bedchamber...which stood empty, the bed all made up, and no sign of Prince Oberyn to be seen.

"My prince has been busy," was all Ellaria said. "He was out most of the evening on some errand, then took over Maester Raymun's chamber for hours, finishing — well, some business that he began after speaking with the other judges a few days ago. Then he slept briefly, only to wake an hour ago, dragging poor Daemon down to the cellars in search of the perfect wine for the judges. It must be just the right Dornish red, he says, a good rich one, dark as blood. Ah, here we are!"

This last was said as she threw open a chest and pulled out a gown. It glowed like moonlight in the bright morning sunshine, but Sansa realized as she looked closer that it was not white, but a soft silvery gray. "The dress itself is rather plain, I'm afraid," Ellaria said. "But it will serve for today, and we can embellish it later. It is a Dornish style, you see, but — " she turned it around and showed Sansa the back. There was...a cape, she supposed, slim and light, of the same delicate silk but a few shades darker, falling from the shoulders. Thread-of-silver flowers cascaded down it — just enough weight that, though it would move, it would not flutter at the slightest breeze.

"I know you do not like to show your back," was all Ellaria said. "But...but it may be that you are called upon to show it, in the trial, to show how despicable the boy was. I thought this a good solution; you can pull it aside easily and without any shame as soon as you need to, but otherwise, it will hide whatever you wish to hide, and then once you are done, it will fall back into place, with no fussing or other trouble. I thought...I cannot imagine that this will be _easy_ , precisely, but I thought that might make it a little less difficult."

Sansa stared at the dress. _I must say something,_ she thought, but she could not find the air to speak. "You are too kind, my — Ellaria," she managed at last, the courtesy barely whispered but said nonetheless.

Ellaria made as if to reach for her, and then seemed to think better of it. "I have told you before, my sweet, I am nothing of the sort," she said instead, but softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. "But I do not dislike _my Ellaria_ , I confess. I am that, whatever happens, you know. Your friend, and — and you have more important things to do than listen to my simpering, forgive me." She nodded toward the screen in one corner of the room, and pressed the gown into Sansa's hands. It seemed to Sansa that she held on, her soft, warm hands on Sansa's arms, for longer than she needed to. "I don't think you will need a maid to dress, but I shall stay here to help you with your hair after. Only call for me if you need help."

 _Help,_ Sansa wanted to cry, _help, please, help me, I don't know what to do,_ but she kept silent, and somehow, her feet carried her behind the screen. _My Ellaria,_ she thought, and mouthed the words to herself. They helped, made her feel as though she carried something warm and sweet and golden with her as she dressed.

 

Lord Tywin arrived on horseback, and Lord Tyrell in a litter. And there, behind, carried by one of the guards, his face red and furious, was her lord husband. He wore a hooded cloak, but even so, she saw that he was soaked. "They made him walk," she said to Ellaria and Ser Daemon, watching from the window above the great hall where only two days ago she had felt so happy, so full, so comfortable. "They made him walk, he could not manage it the whole way, _they made him walk._ " She had said it thrice now, and she could not say why, precisely, but something about it made her angry. She knew there was no love lost between Lord Tyrion and his father, but Lord Tywin was so proud, even prouder than the Queen, where his family was concerned — and Tyrion, too; even though he seemed to hate them, almost as much as she did, sometimes she thought he hated _her_ for hating them — why would he ever have risked such an indignity as his son being carried like a babe in arms?

"I suppose they did," Ellaria said. Her voice was quiet. Sansa could not blame her for not being certain how to respond to that; Sansa was hardly certain how she felt about it. Except — except something in her was angry, so very angry. Something in her seemed almost to snap and growl, like...

"His legs could not manage the walk," she explained, for she could sense Ellaria's uncertainty. "They never could have. They must have known that; he gets awful cramps in them, and he's still not entirely recovered from the Blackwater, and still, _they made him walk._ " She spun around, no longer quite so afraid, somehow. That was stupid, she knew it was stupid not to be afraid, she ought to be afraid, she ought to be terrified, and she _was_ , she was more frightened than she could say, but — "His _son_. Lord Tywin is his _father_ , and he allowed him to walk until his legs gave out. He knew that they _would_ give out, probably. He never could have made it here on his own power."

Sansa felt a hand on her shoulder, and even though that frightened part of her, the part that had ruled her before she looked out the window, made her flinch, she did not turn away this time, did not shrug Ellaria's hand off.

"What's wrong with me?" she asked, even as she turned. "Gods — why should it matter — I do not love him, he is still a Lannister, but — "

"But this is cruelty," Ellaria said, taking one of Sansa's hands in hers. "And you have a good heart, my sweet."

And somehow, then, she was brave enough to take Ellaria's other hand in hers, besides, to hang on to her just for a moment. "I'm ready," she said, and for once in her silly, timid life, her voice did not shake at all.

Ser Daemon escorted her in, and said that he would stand beside her all the while; it might look improper, she supposed, if one of the judges were to do it. Besides, Oberyn had been in the kitchen until almost the last minute, still busy over whatever it was that had taken him to the cellars in the dark of the morning.

The squire had stayed, she thought, but in truth she remembered little of the whole ordeal. Because she was his witness, Tyrion was there as well, but he was permitted to speak little. She thought that he looked a little less drawn by the end, but everything was such a fog that she could hardly be certain.

Then it was done, and Ser Daemon was helping her to her feet again, and offering her his arm. As they made their way out, she was struck by something, the last of what courage she had in her, perhaps, and turned back. "My lord," she said, facing Tyrion, "I had a letter from Princess Myrcella yesterday. She sends her love, and hopes that she will see you in Dorne soon."

Tyrion looked near as shocked by her outburst as she felt, but at last, he closed his mouth and gave a little bow. "I thank you, my lady," he said, and even managed a ghost of a smile. "Whether I shall be able to return the sentiment in person, the gods alone know, but I know you will find some suitably pretty words to write her on my behalf while we wait for my fate to be decided."

"I am pleased to do so. My lords," she added, and she could not meet Lord Tywin's gaze, for she knew if she did these last few threads of courage would fray to pieces, so she looked at Lord Tyrell instead, who gave her a fatherly smile. "Princess Myrcella also sends her love to His Grace her brother and Her Grace her mother. I hope that one of you will pass her regards along."

"Certainly," Lord Tyrell said jovially. "How sweet of the child, to remember her family. And how good of you, my dear, to inform us. I've no doubt it will bring them comfort."

"I am glad to hear it," she managed, and turned away, taking up Ser Daemon's arm once more. She only laid her hand on it until the doors of the hall closed behind them, and then everything seemed bright and sharp and loud again, and she hung on to him more tightly. "It's all right, my lady," he murmured, taking her back up the stairs. "It's over now."

They had questioned her for only an hour and a half, Ellaria told her later, and she supposed it was true, for it was still morning outside, but had Ellaria said it had been a week, a year, she could have believed that, too. "But it is over now, my love," she said, wrapping Sansa up in an embrace. "Thank the gods, it is over now."

Sansa could only pray that she was right.

* * *

**Ellaria**

Sansa's testimony was meant to be the worst of it for their household. Oh, there was still hardship to come; none of them were so naive as to doubt that. But this was the last of the trials that Sansa herself must be a part of. This was the last of the ties that still bound her to King's Landing, to the Lannisters. Even if her husband were found innocent, the marriage would be set aside soon enough. Within a moon's turn, she would be bound for Sunspear, and all of this would be behind her. Ellaria had even begun to make arrangements for the journey.

So when, a few days after her interview with the judges, Oberyn told her that he had volunteered to serve as the Imp's champion in a trial by combat, she was so angry that she nearly slapped him.

Well, not at first — at first, when he told her what he would be doing on the morrow, Ellaria thought her prince was jesting, and merely informed him that she did not think it a good joke at all. "No jest, my love," he said, and she looked again at him, and saw something fierce in his dark eyes. "The Imp has chosen trial by combat. Lord Tywin has summoned the Mountain as his daughter's champion, and tomorrow, I shall kill him."

She was speechless at that, and so she did not try to say anything, but turned and swept out of the room without another word. She hardly knew where her feet took her, and by the time someone came to her and took her hand, she realized she was dripping wet from wandering the gardens in the rain. If it had been Oberyn, she might have kept wandering still, but the touch was softer, the hand that slipped into her own smaller than his. She blinked, and saw that Sansa stood before her.

"You should come inside," she said. Her face was shadowed by the hood of her cloak, but the concern in her eyes was easy to read, and helped, somewhat, to bring some warmth back into Ellaria's heart.

 _Has he told her?_ Gods, she did not know whether that would be better, for she did not want to be the one to break it to her, but she did not want Oberyn to do so, either.

The thought brought Ellaria to her senses again, and she tried to smile at Sansa. She could not fall to pieces — _not yet,_ a part of her whispered in spite of herself, but she did not dwell on that. "Of course. You are kind to look out for a foolish old woman, my dear."

Sansa smiled at that, a little, and tugged at her hand gently. "Come," she said. "I think the baths are mostly empty, that will help you warm up." Soft as her voice was, Ellaria could hear every word. So she let the maid lead her back inside.

She was right about the baths, as it happened; not only were they mostly empty, but she had already arranged for dry clothes for Ellaria, besides. There was wine, too, and even a few pastries. The sight struck a sweet, soft chord in her heart, but she felt too weary to speak, and Sansa did not seem to mind the silence.

After some minutes, though, after they had both settled into the large stone bath, after some of the chill that had leached into the depths of Ellaria's soul had dissipated, if only a little, she knew she managed to gather her thoughts enough to speak. "You have a right to know — you _will_ know, of course, but — " _But my love has done something very brave and very, very foolish, and I am terrified,_ she thought, but somehow, she could not speak the words.

There was no need, however. "I — I know, my lady," Sansa said. "I heard some of the servants talking."

"And yet you thought of me," Ellaria said, looking up from the water to gaze at her. "I should be ashamed of myself, going to pieces like that — you ought not to have had to hear it that way, it should have come from someone you — well." _Trust_ , she hoped, had even, now and again, dreamed it might be _love_ someday, but better not to presume, not to make the sweet thing feel trapped or herded.

But once again, Sansa surprised her, in that sweet, gentle way of hers. "Someone I love?" she said, in a voice that could hardly even be termed a whisper. Even so, it seemed, somehow, to echo through the room, or perhaps it was only in Ellaria's heart.

Neither of them spoke, and Ellaria could hardly breathe for a moment. At last, though, she leaned a little closer, and took Sansa's hand. How long they stayed like that, she could not say — in truth, no more than a minute or so, probably. At last, Ellaria said, with scarcely a tremor in her voice, "I thank you for thinking of me, my love. And I am sorry to have given you one more thing to worry about, in my foolishness."

The flush on Sansa's cheeks may have been from the warmth of the water, but it deepened now, and she turned her face away. "Please don't say that," she said. "I — with all that you have done for me, is it so strange that I should..."

"You have a good heart," was all Ellaria said. "I am glad the gods saw fit to bring you to us."

She looked back then, and gave a tremulous smile. "As am I."

Ellaria could not truthfully have said that she was easy yet, but her heart did not feel quite so heavy as it had. "You are very dear to me, Sansa," she said, and found that something in her had loosened, just a little. "To both of us. Whatever happens, you must never doubt that."

Those lovely blue eyes of hers seemed to shimmer for a moment, but perhaps that was just the steam of the baths. It was hard to be sure, in the dim light. "And you to me, Ellaria," she said. "Both of you."

 _Both of you._ It gave her pain, to be sure, and fear, to hear the words, to try not to think — but she did not feel so distant as she had, so gripped by terror, or the anger it hid behind.

"Come," she said, as she heard voices approaching. She liked company in the baths, ordinarily, but just now she did not think she could bear any but Sansa's. "That wine will not drink itself, and if we have much more in this heat, we shall faint dead away. We must not give our wretched prince the satisfaction of thinking we were swooning over him — his head is fat enough already, as I am sure you have noticed."

Sansa smiled, rising along with her, and if it did not quite seem to reach her eyes, still, Ellaria thought that perhaps she, too, seemed to move a little more lightly.

 

The first time Ellaria asked if she would feel better in new chambers, the day after they had discovered the body next to her bed, Sansa had demurred, but her answer had been a little too quick, and Ellaria had asked her again, a little later. Sansa had seemed uncomfortable, but said, at last, "I know it's foolish, my lady, but..."

"It is nothing of the sort, my love," Ellaria had told her. "That is why we did not stay in the Red Keep, you know — Oberyn could not sleep soundly there. The Martells, of all people, know what it is to be haunted by terrible things."

Ellaria was glad she had not taken the initial refusal, now, for her own sake as well as Sansa's. They took their supper in her new chambers this evening, and that, too, was a quiet affair. Neither of them had the strength to pretend she was not troubled. Still, though, the silence did not feel so weighty as it might have; there were no clouds of unsaid things hanging over their heads. There was a peace to it, if not a happy one. Oberyn did them the courtesy, too, of giving them their space, for which she was grateful — her prince's bravado was something she loved, but just now she did not think she could bear it, not without weeping, or else slapping him in truth, or perhaps both.

The two of them sat by the fire for some time after. The couch here was larger than the chaise in Oberyn's solar, but still, when at last she woke to see the remains of the fire, Ellaria found that Sansa was curled up in her arms. It took her a moment to realize that a light touch on her shoulder had woken her; she turned to see Oberyn standing there behind her. In the shadows of the room, she could not see his face clearly, but she did not have the energy to fight any longer, and anyway, she did not wish to wake Sansa.

Once more, he gathered Sansa up in his arms and carried her to her bed, and this time, she stirred a little, murmured something that Ellaria could not quite make out. Oberyn did not sit this time, though, and neither did Ellaria, though she lingered, just for a moment, to stroke Sansa's hair and press a soft kiss to her temple.

Oberyn took her hand as they returned to his chambers, and kissed it, gently. She was glad of the touch, but could summon up no hotter feelings. Even the anger she had felt earlier had burned down to embers. Mercifully, he seemed to sense that she did not have the energy for more, and left her to undress as she would. When she turned to the bed, he was already there, looking at her, only looking.

She climbed in beside him, and was glad, after everything, when he wrapped his arms around her, for all that it sent a pang through her, struck that fearful chord once more of _what if this is the last time?_ Ellaria did not have room in her for terror anymore.

Neither of them spoke for some time. At last, though, she managed to break the silence. "I cannot go with you."

He sighed, softly, but did not speak immediately. After pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her neck, he said, "I am not so stupid as to let Sansa back into reach of their arms, but I had hoped you, at least..."

Even now, Ellaria had to smile at that, just a little. "It is for her sake that I cannot," she said. Oberyn did not answer, only waited for her to go on. After a moment or two of silence, she rolled over, looked close into his face for perhaps the first time since he had told her what he planned.

 _What did I expect?_ She thought, looking at the sweet face of the man she loved. _To see the Stranger hovering behind him? Or the Warrior shining down in a promise of victory?_ It was only the same face she had loved for all these years, the dark eyes — those eyes she knew so well from her daughters' faces! — gazing at her with a patience few could have guessed Oberyn Martell capable of.

"After that poor fool's body turned up in her rooms, I gave the lady my word that I would not return to the Red Keep," she told him. "Do not ask me to break it. Not to — not for this. I love you with all my heart, but I cannot watch you do this."

"Not to watch me die, you mean?" he asked, and though his tone was light, his words were spoken quietly, and he no longer wore a smile. "Do you think so little of me, my love?"

"I think you are rash, and brave, and angry over promises that have been broken, trusts that have been betrayed, injustices that have been done — the fresh ones and the old ones. And I _know_ that even if you were twice the Mountain's size I should fear for you, because you are so precious to me. You are the father of my children, and near as much as I fear losing them, I fear that something will stop you from raising our daughters at my side. I will not ask you not to do this thing, for it seems the wheels are in motion, but I beg you, do not do me such an injustice as to say that my fearing for you means I hold you in low regard."

She did not speak but softly, for she did not trust her voice to stay steady if she raised it. Nonetheless, it cracked at the end, and she had to turn away from him once more, and hide her eyes while she tried to steady herself.

He did not stir, nor speak, for some moments. At last, his arms went around her once again, a little tighter than before. "Forgive me, Ellaria," he sighed. "Of course you are afraid. And of course, I would never ask that you break any oath merely to watch me showing off — much less one to Sansa."

Ellaria nodded. Another moment, and she said, softly, "She does love us, you know. She said so today, in the baths. Both of us."

She did not wait for his answer, but rolled over again. His arms went around her again, but he seemed to understand that she could not say more, that she had no more strength in her to find words this night.

 

Ellaria slept but fitfully — not a surprise, perhaps. When Oberyn woke in the morning and began to dress, she gave up on finding any true rest, and rose as well. She had barely finished dressing when there was a soft knock at the door to the solar. "Come in," she called from the breakfast table, glad of the distraction from staring at the food and wondering how on earth she would manage to eat anything.

She was not surprised, nor displeased, when Sansa entered. "Sansa," she said, rising once more.

The lady let Ellaria embrace her, even returned the hug. Indeed, it seemed to Ellaria that, for a moment at least, she held near as tight to Ellaria as Ellaria did to her. They had only just sat and begun, half-heartedly, to pick at their breakfast before Ser Daemon was knocking, too, and calling out for Oberyn.

"My ladies," he said, bowing to them both, before turning to Oberyn, who was sitting at his writing table, sifting through the cask in which he kept his potions. "My prince, Ser Arron has arrived. He's waiting in the stables for the moment, but if you want me to call him in — "

Oberyn waved the suggestion away, picking up a vial at last. "No, no, tell him I shall be with him shortly. In the meantime, see that my spear is well oiled," he said, tossing the vial to Daemon, who caught it and was gone, whistling some cheerful tune as he went.

"My ladies," Oberyn said, when they were alone once more, and turned to them. "You ought to eat. I cannot concentrate on fighting if I fear that you two are wasting away."

The jest fell flat — what had the sweet idiot been expecting? His foolishness, now, _that_ was near enough to make her laugh, except that under the circumstances, it only threatened to bring all her fear crashing back — but Ellaria managed to move her mouth into something like a smile, and ate a bit of melon. Sansa did not move at all, only sat, her back straighter than any spear, her hands wrapped tight around the cup from which she did not drink. She was pale and drawn as she had not looked since she had left the Keep with them the night of the wedding feast.

Yet it was Sansa who spoke next, and Ellaria marveled at her strength in doing so, however soft her words. "My prince," she began, setting her cup down, "what will — what will we do after?"

Ellaria heard her true question clear as day, of course: _What_ , she meant, _will become of me if you fall?_

And it set some small part of her at ease, at least a little, when Oberyn seemed to hear it too. He knelt before Sansa, taking her hands in his and looking up at her. His face had softened somehow in those moments, too, just a little, and that, strange to say, reassured her somewhat. _Perhaps he is not lost to all sense._

"We shall make for Sunspear three days hence," was all he said. "I have Tywin Lannister's word that, should you be widowed, he will respect that you are under Martell protection. I would be the greatest of hypocrites to say we should all trust in Lord Tywin's word, however, so Ser Daemon will remain here, and Ser Arron Qorgyle will squire for me. Should things go ill today, Ser Arron will return immediately, and with Ser Daemon will see you both back to Sunspear. We have picked a handful of the best men among our company, as well, and until you are both safely established in the Old Palace, under my brother's protection, at least one of those men will be with each of you at all times. I tell you this only to put your mind at ease, my lady," he said, running a thumb over her knuckles. "I have no doubt that soon enough, I shall be presenting you to my brother myself."

Sansa's eyes were distant, and Ellaria was not certain she had heard him, but then, suddenly, she pulled one of her hands free, and pulled something from her pocket — a handkerchief, white, with a silver direwolf embroidered in the corner. She said nothing, only pressed it into his hand. He stared at it, speechless himself, for several moments, and then raised the hand he still held and pressed it to his lips gently. Sansa managed a tremulous smile — a frail little thing, and Ellaria had to turn away lest her strained composure give way entirely.

She was still so angry and frightened that she could scarcely look at him when he embraced her. _But you will never forgive yourself if you do not,_ she knew. "Please, my love," she whispered, but could not remember what she meant to beg of him. _Be careful — do not do this thing — come back to me, to us, to your daughters, to this sweet maid we have found —_ all of that, and none of it.

His eyes were soft, and he took her hands in his as he had Sansa's just a moment ago. "I swear to you, my love — I swear to both of you — I shall come back to you on my own two legs before the day is old. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

She could not say anything to that. But when she finally kissed him, softly, at the corner of his mouth, she lingered long enough to whisper, "Lady Stark has known too much of betrayal for you to break your oath."

And then there was nothing to do but wait.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er. Does it help if I say that what I intended as the last chapter was shaping up to be as long as several previous chapters put together, and finally, I decided I needed to prioritize readability over consistency with the two-POVs-per-chapter pattern?
> 
> (Not to worry! The last-for-real chapter, from Oberyn's POV, is about 3/4 done, so I can at least promise that it won't be as long before that -- a few weeks, at most.)

**Sansa**

There was a little courtyard at the center of the estate where she and Ellaria and some of the other ladies liked to sit and enjoy the cool of autumn. Much of the garden was still damp after the days of rain, but sitting inside was unbearable, and the two of them, not very long after Oberyn had departed, ended up outside. Of course, once outside, it seemed like a silly thing to have done; they had not been speaking much to begin with, but now they said even less, and Sansa suspected Ellaria was quiet for the same reason she was herself, that she was straining her ears, trying to hear something from the Red Keep.

At last, when they had made a few halting attempts at pleasantries, only for the quiet sounds of the gardens to overwhelm them once more, Sansa asked, almost desperately, "Would you tell me of your daughters?"

Ellaria started, almost, as though she had forgotten that Sansa was there, but her hand gripped Sansa's a little more tightly, and her eyes focused on her after a moment. "My — oh, my love, you do know how to catch a mother's attention, don't you?" she asked, and drew Sansa's hand to her cheek, kissed the back of it, so that Sansa found herself blushing, a little, in the midst of everything.

"I only — I have heard you both speak of them a little, yourself and — and the prince," she said, hurriedly, trying to skip past the man who so haunted them both.

_No, not haunts, what a terrible word, you stupid girl. Why would you tempt fate thus? The man who — who plagues you both._

Ellaria did not seem to notice her hesitation, though. She had Sansa's hand clasped in her own, though she had dropped them both from her mouth. She only held Sansa's hand in hers, and hers was laying in her lap once more, and her gaze was on the both of them, and there was a softness in her eyes —

 _You wretched creature,_ she told herself. _You ghoul. How can you look at her and think of such things —_ "Your daughters, my lady?" she asked again, and hoped she did not sound too desperate. "You mentioned — which of them was it, you said, who liked to hear tales of the Night's Watch?"

"My Loree," Ellaria said, with just a shadow of a smile. "Loreza, yes. My youngest. Our youngest — well, thus far, anyway." Here, there was some spark in her eyes, just for a moment, something like the sweet, merry lady that Sansa had grown to rely upon. Not a full sunbeam, perhaps, but a spark of light, at least.

 _Thus far, anyway,_ another something inside of her repeated, but she did not stop to think on that. "How old is she? Loree?"

"Barely six," Ellaria said. "I wanted to bring her with me. Oberyn convinced me it would be best to let her stay with her sisters, reminded me that they do not think of bastards half so kindly here as we do in Dorne — but really, she is a child of six, how much could anyone object to her?"

"Indeed," Sansa said, and thought once more of the letter she had written to Jon, hoping against hope that he might feel half so desperate as she did, half so eager to hear that _someone_ still remembered Winterfell, that someone she had played and laughed and wrestled with recalled it all. "I do know some stories of the Watch. I should be happy to tell them to you, too, so you may pass them on."

Another little movement like a smile. "Gods willing, we will be gone from this city soon, and you will be able to tell her yourself when we reach Sunspear. I fear she won't give you a moment's peace. The little ones love their stories."

"I'd like that," Sansa said. Someone ought to pass on Old Nan's tales. The thought made her sad all over again, for Old Nan was dead now, lost with Winterfell. _But just think how she would laugh at the idea of them going all the way to Dorne,_ she told herself, and it helped, a little.

"You know, my lady," Ellaria said, pouring more wine into their glasses, though neither of them had taken more than a few sips — "gods, perhaps it is only cruelty to tell you this — but it cannot be, can it? To speak of the future?"

"I don't know," Sansa said, a little shakily. She caught Ellaria's eye, and then, suddenly, both of them were laughing, ragged and harsh, only a hair's breadth from weeping. "I wish — " she ventured, and hesitated, and then, while the smile was still on Ellaria's lips, she forged ahead. "I wish that you would not call me that. Not if you do not want me to call _you_ 'my lady', either."

Ellaria blinked, as if she had not understood her, and then she gave a shaky smile. "Ah — yes. Forgive me, I only — it is terribly hypocritical of me, you are quite right. No, no," she added, her smile a little less fragile now, "of course you did not mean it that way, I know, I'm sorry. 'Tis only that I _should_ call you that, and you hardly need use the courtesy for some bastard paramour."

"You are my host," Sansa said. "I — you are the lady of the household. And you are — you are very dear to me," she added, lamely.

There was another long moment of silence, but it sat a little less heavy about their shoulders.

"You to me, as well, my sweetling," Ellaria said at last, moving a little closer. Sansa would have laid her head on Ellaria's shoulder, except that she was a little taller, and Ellaria's head was on _her_ shoulder first. It was so strange, to be the one comforting her, for once! It had been strange yesterday, too, but somehow she had not felt the strangeness of it quite so much.

 _It may be that we shall have to comfort each other now,_ she thought, and just as quickly, tried to banish the thought from her mind. She must not dwell on it, she must not think such things.

"What was it you wished to say, Ellaria?" Sansa finally ventured, for lack of anything else to talk of. "Of the future? For — for perhaps that would be good to think of, just now."

"Oh, that," Ellaria said, and Sansa could feel, somehow, or hear, or — she was not certain which, but she knew, somehow, that Ellaria was smiling again, that little sweet smile she had never seen her wear for anyone but Prince Oberyn...and herself, she realized, and the thought was like the song of a nightingale, a piping burst of light in the pressing gloom. "Only — well. I expect Oberyn will be quite put out with me for telling you before he could, and of course the matter will need to be put before his brother before anything can be certain, but my prince frankly deserves a bit of disappointment, after what he has put _us_ through today. My dear — you realize, do you not, that your marriage can, rather easily, be put aside?"

"I — " She hardly knew what to say to that. She felt as though she had been dreaming of it for ages, but hearing someone say it — it seemed too good to be true.

 _Say something, you stupid,_ she heard someone hiss in her mind, and this time instead of the queen or Joffrey, the contemptuous voice only sounded like Arya, like some adorable infuriating little creature she loved even when she wanted to strangle it, a tiny bit.

"I suppose," she managed, at last. "Yes." Remembering what Ellaria had said, though, she asked, "But — why should the prince be disappointed, not to be able to tell me himself?"

Ellaria only looked at her, and her eyes did not seem quite so shadowed, so Sansa was not sorry to have to ask.

At last, an idea occurred to Sansa. "Do you mean — " But she did not dare say it, she could only think that she must be imagining things, that she was just a silly girl still dreaming of handsome princes. _I would not have thought him so handsome as Joff, even,_ she thought, but that only went to show how stupid a girl she was, really. At last, barely able to whisper it, she said, "Do you mean Prince Oberyn?"

Her hesitation, her fear that it must be too good to be true, must have shown on her face. Ellaria misunderstood it: her brow creased slightly, and she said, "Would the match not please you? I know he is older than you may have expected, but — "

Sansa shook her head, even as she was saying it, and found that she was laughing a little, or perhaps she was weeping, or perhaps both. "I only — I thought perhaps I was — that I aimed too high, or I was just being stupid again — "

"How many times must I say it?" Ellaria asked, but she was smiling as warmly as ever as she did, reaching over to tuck a lock of hair behind Sansa's ear. "You are nothing of the sort. And frankly, as I told my prince myself, he is only the _younger_ son, and he protests that he is a good deal too old for you, so we are agreed that if either of you aims too high in thinking of the match, it is him."

She could not help it, even in the midst of this terrible waiting, Sansa found herself laughing a little. "Never. But — would the match please _you_ , my lady? Truly? I — you are so dear to me — if anything I did were to hurt you — I do not think I could bear it."

"Oh, my love," Ellaria sighed, pulling Sansa into an embrace. "Nothing would please me more, Sansa, do not doubt that for a moment."

They stayed like that for some moments, and with the birds singing and Ellaria's warm arms around her, Sansa nearly forgot, for a few heartbeats, to be afraid anymore. _Whatever happens, I am leaving Kings Landing,_ she told herself again, breathing deep and letting the warm smell of Ellaria's hair, like sunshine and spices she had only ever tasted in dreams, fill her lungs. And then, _whatever happens, we will have each other._

Then there was a commotion, and she felt Ellaria stiffen in her arms, and all her fear came rushing back. Ellaria bolted to her feet, though she kept Sansa's hand tight in her own, and Sansa, rising with her, saw that she had gone pale once more. Turning, she saw — oh, gods be good, it was Ser Arron, racing toward them, his face pale, and Sansa could hardly breathe.

"My ladies," he said, a little breathlessly, as he reached them. He was smiling, she noticed, dimly, but even then, it seemed too good to be true. Ellaria must have thought the same, for she caught Sansa's hand, and together they bolted through the gardens to make for the door...

...but before they could even leave the gardens, Oberyn, supported by Ser Daemon, came limping in. The prince's face was pale, paler than she had ever seen him looking, and his eyes were shadowed, but he was smiling, smiling so widely you might have thought his face would split with it.

At his other side, unfettered, near as pale as Ellaria and smiling near as widely as Daemon, walked her lord husband. He stood straighter and taller than she had ever seen him, she thought.

Ellaria was weeping, she realized, and Sansa might be, too, now that she thought of it, it was like that day when he had brought the news about the judges and her innocence, only this time it was _she_ who was sweeping _Ellaria_ up into an embrace, it was Ellaria who was weeping on _her_ shoulder. She flung an arm around Oberyn briefly, and the soft noise he made, the low hum, made her feel as if, in this moment, winter should suddenly swoop down upon them in all its ferocity, and freeze them like this, forever — that might not be such a dreadful thing. But then Oberyn was releasing her, or she releasing him, so that he could comfort Ellaria, and Sansa turned to face her husband.

"My lady," Lord Tyrion said. His face was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but he was smiling, too, as she had never seen him smile.

"My lord," Sansa said, and though she felt the same steel inside of her, her lady's armor, it did not all seem quite so heavy as it had, quite so binding, so _necessary_. Perhaps that was stupid — he was still a Lannister, after all — but then, they all hated _him_ near as much as they did her, now, didn't they? The thought made her giggle, for some reason, and then Ellaria was seizing her up again, twirling her around happily. "Oh, my love," Ellaria murmured, so low that only the two of them could here. "Oh, now there will be plenty of time for us to talk of — well, but that can wait," she said, and hugged Sansa tight once more, before catching up Ser Daemon and whirling him about as well.

"Gods be good, Martell," Tyrion said to Oberyn, mildly, "have you given my wife some potion, or is it only that Dornish food agrees with her? I did not know Starks were capable of laughter."

Her relief made him almost handsome, and no one was more shocked than he when she stooped down to place a kiss on his forehead. The stunned expression on his face made her giggle, and then he was laughing as well. When he took her hand and kissed it, she did not mind, even squeezed it back.

 _I am leaving King's Landing._ It was a strange thought. Sansa dared not think it too often, indeed, as if by doing so she might prevent it coming to pass after all. It was like some dream, and she was afraid of waking up.

 

The rest of the day, and the next, and the one after that, passed much the same — like a strange, sweet dream. She hardly felt as if her feet touched the ground. The night before they left King's Landing was warm enough that they dined outside again, and though no formal feast had been prepared, so many of the other Dornish lords and ladies joined them, crowding the gardens and laughing, as drunk on relief and victory and vengeance as on any wine, that it nearly felt like one. It was not half so frightening as a true feast might have been — more than anything, it was like that sweet summer night after the tourney the king — the old king, King Robert — had given for Father. Only better, maybe, for though she still sat beside a prince, and maybe he was not so handsome as she had once imagined Joff to be, _this_ prince was more than just a story, he was a kind and brave and good man.

 _It is not really so fine a night as that was,_ she thought, _the music is not so sweet and the food is not so rich and the clothes are not so elegant, but somehow it's even better._ Perhaps _that_ had been the dream, then, for she had not known enough to see the truth underneath it all, and only now was she even a little bit awake. "You can't eat anything in a dream, fine or not," she said to herself, giggling, as she picked up one of the honeyed pastries she had come to love.

"My lady?" Lord Tyrion was on her other side tonight. Even he had seemed less angry, less sad, these last few days. She had almost forgotten to be afraid of him anymore.

"Forgive me, my — " she stopped herself in the middle of telling him he should not mind her. _Where is the harm in my telling him what I was thinking?_ The Lannisters hated him. He had near as little influence with them as she did, now. The worst he could do was say she was being stupid, and he had never done _that_ even in the Red Keep, where he had so much power; he was not likely to say it now, knowing that she was held in high esteem by the Martells, who may have been the only friends left to him. He might think it, but he thought she was stupid anyway, everyone did, except for Ellaria and Oberyn, and sometimes she still believed that _they_ were only being kind when they said otherwise.

"That is — " she said, slowly, not accustomed to saying anything at all to him besides occasional courtesies — "it only reminded me, a little, of that night when — when we had first come to King's Landing — my father and sister and I, I mean — the king — King Robert, that is — he had a tourney for my lord father, and one night there was a feast down by the river, and I thought it was the most wonderful, magical thing I had ever seen — I suppose it's only because we're outside, it's really not like that at all, I know, but — I was only thinking that even though it seemed finer, in some ways, that truly, it was more like a dream, and this seems — even though this is different, I like it better." Her face was red by the end, she could feel it, and her husband was only looking at her with those queer mismatched eyes of his, a strange expression on his face. "It's stupid, my lord," she said in a rush, "I know. It's just a fancy."

"On the contrary," Lord Tyrion said slowly, still wearing that strange expression. It was sad, a little, but in a different way from the sad, hungry looks he had given her before. "You are wiser than any of us ever credited, I think."

"Your sister said something very similar to me not long ago," Prince Oberyn said lightly from her other side. She jumped a little, for she had not realized he had been listening, and felt her blush deepen. She did not deliberately hide her face, but she _did_ look down at her pastry with new interest. Beside her, the prince went on, "I am glad to see that some of you Lannisters are beginning to have an idea of the lady's true worth."

"No doubt it rather sweetens the victory of having got her out of reach of our claws," Tyrion said, just a little sharply.

"Lady Sansa, will you dance with me?" Ser Daemon asked loudly, jumping up from his place beside Ellaria.

"I — yes, ser," she stammered, taking his hand and letting him pull her out into the open space past the fountain, where several people were already dancing merrily.

"Ellaria thought you seemed uncomfortable," Ser Daemon murmured, guiding her into the line of the dance. She felt her face go pink again, but no one seemed to take any notice; it was a rather fast-moving dance, and she was hardly the only one flushed.

"She is very kind," Sansa managed, when she found herself back with Ser Daemon a few minutes later. It was an insipid thing to say, but he did not appear to think so, for he only smiled. When they had moved back into view of the prince's table, Ser Daemon looked over and frowned. Following his gaze, she saw that Ser Arron was leaning over and whispering something to the prince. Oberyn was no longer smiling, and Sansa noticed, suddenly, that the music was fading, and the voices around them as well. Ser Daemon took hold of her arm and guided her, smoothly, back toward the table, but the prince met them first.

Gathering her courage, Sansa ventured, "Is something wrong, my prince?"

Looking down at her, Oberyn's smile returned, only a little smaller than before. Fear tugged at her — only a little, but unmistakeable, as if her skirts had caught on a nail, and she knew as if by instinct that if she tried to move they would tear. Prince Oberyn did not answer her, however, or if he did, she did not hear him. The crowd was parting, and in the new quiet, under the rain of whispers, there was a sound of armored boots on the path, like thunder.

"The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister," a servant announced, "and Lady Brienne of Tarth."

 _Kingsguard?_ Sansa felt her stomach drop to her slippers at that, but Prince Oberyn, at least, did not seem too troubled.

As if he had read her mind, the prince murmured, too soft for any but herself to hear, "You are surrounded by my guards and knights, not to mention those of my bannermen, my lady. I promise you, one knight will not be sufficient to do you any harm."

"I never thought he would," Sansa murmured back, and found that it was true. Oberyn's hand on her arm tightened a little, and when she glanced, just for a moment, at him, he was looking at her with something soft and sweet in his eyes. It made her feel stronger, braver — or at least, less weak, less afraid.

She hardly knew Ser Jaime when she saw him. True, she had only seen him a few times before, and those two years ago, but even given that she had looked at everything through the veil of her silly little dreams then, she knew he was changed. She would not have guessed that he and the queen were twins if she saw him for the first time today, for he looked ten years the elder. He still moved with confidence; you still could not look away from him. But something was different, something more than the weight he had lost or the weariness in his eyes.

 _It is the white cloak,_ she realized suddenly. He had rarely worn it before, and then always over golden armor, Lannister armor, but here he was all in the white of the Kingsguard. _It suits him._

It was Tyrion who broke the heavy silence that had fallen over the gardens as Ser Jaime came to a stop. "Brother!" he cried, cheerfully, with an expansive gesture of the hand holding his wine cup. She was grateful to him then, to the way he made the silence feel a little less ominous, as if it really were something so simple as two brothers, reunited after a long time apart. But perhaps it was, for looking over at him, Sansa was startled to see that her lord husband was beaming, seemed near as happy as he had been after the trial. It made him look younger. "Have you come to see me off? Our sweet sister hasn't. I can't imagine why."

Something tightened in Ser Jaime's jaw, she thought, or flickered in his eyes, or something — but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by something like the careless smile he used to wear all the time. _That_ did not seem to suit him so well anymore. "So I have. But that must wait, brother, for my purpose here is also Kingsguard business — with your lady wife."

"Is it?" Prince Oberyn asked smoothly, squeezing her arm just a little, as if he'd felt the cold that seemed to spread through her with those words. "Fortunate for you that you have come when you did; we depart the city two days hence."

"Besides which," Tyrion added at her other side, "I won't have a wife much longer. I can't seem to keep them, can I? Perhaps if I try for a third, I'll see if I can make it last a year."

He had said something about a wife on their wedding night, but she had thought it was just some story or joke that she didn't know. Sansa had no time to puzzle over that, though, for that strange something behind Ser Jaime's smile flashed again — it was almost like sorrow, or even fear. But all he said was, "Then I suppose I _have_ been fortunate. I was about due for a bit of good luck," he said, with a glance at his sword hand, where, she realized, there was no hand at all.

"Gods be good," Tyrion said. "What happened?"

"Oh, just one of Father's pets," Ser Jaime said, with that twist of his mouth, the smile-that-wasn't, again. "I must say, between _this_ — "he waved the stump of his hand — "and your trial, they don't seem to be worth whatever he was paying for them, do they?"

"I don't know," Tyrion said, "I was entirely satisfied with Ser Gregor's work in my trial."

Everyone laughed at that, and Sansa felt something in her ease a little. _If anyone doesn't belong here, it's the Lannisters,_ she told herself. _Not you._ After everything, she could almost believe it.

"A fair point," Ser Jaime said, chuckling. "And on balance, I'd choose you over Ser Gregor any day."

"High praise indeed," Prince Oberyn said at last, and this time even Sansa laughed a little. "And here they say _my_ brother has little use for _me_."

"At any rate," Ser Jaime said, when the laughter had quieted a little, "to be sure, brother, I would like to say our own goodbyes someplace a little quieter — but as I said, first, I have business with your lady wife. Or should I call you sister, my lady?"

It took Sansa a moment to realize he was teasing her. Fortunately, she did not have to answer, for Tyrion did it instead. "Gods forbid. She's lucky enough not to have been born a Lannister. Besides, if she were our sister, I could hardly have married her." There was more laughter, but something about it was different, a little sharper, and Sansa recalled how angry Joff had been about the rumors...

Ser Jaime barely blinked, but he _did_ blink, and suddenly, Sansa recalled Father's face, that last day — how he had seemed thunderstruck when she said "he's not like that drunken old king — "

_It was true. Gods be good, it was true, and Father knew, and that's why they killed him. He was no traitor at all._

"Besides," Tyrion was saying, and she found that somehow, she was still standing, "it wouldn't do for you to get into the habit; we need only a septon to make the end of this farce official. My prince," he asked Oberyn, "do you happen to have one handy? My brother wasn't able to be present for my wedding, but he could at least be here for its end."

"Let us see, at least, what the Lord Commander's business is first." The prince's voice was light, but his hold on her arm remained solid — not tight, really, not enough to hurt, but firm.

"Of course," Ser Jaime said, and he seemed a little less tense, suddenly. "Come on, then," he called behind him, and stepped aside, letting four of the prince's guards past him. They were bearing a chest, and when they set it down before the table, there was a rattling and clinking from within.

"You, too," Ser Jaime said, and another knight, tall and plain-faced, joined him. The second knight carried a bundle, something long and narrow, wrapped up in white cloth. He had been hanging behind Ser Jaime for some moments, and he kept his eyes on his feet, even as he went to his knees — and Sansa could not help gasping, a little, when the knight, at last, chanced a look up at her, bright blue eyes looking frightened and sad beneath pale lashes, and Sansa realized that "he" was a woman.

"Lady — Lady Brienne of Tarth?" she asked, recalling the announcement.

The woman's pale face flamed crimson. "Yes, my lady," she mumbled. She looked up once more, opened her mouth, and then closed it again, looked away.

Ser Jaime waited a moment more, as if he thought the lady might say whatever it was she'd meant to, but then he continued, smoothly, as if there had been no pause at all. "You've greeted me somewhat more warmly than I expected, Prince Oberyn," he said. "I can't expect my word is worth much, but for whatever it _is_ worth, I am not here on any Lannister business. This is about an oath I swore to Lady Stark."

Frantically trying to recall anything he might have said to her before — _before he attacked Father_ — but even that thought seemed still too treasonous — before he had left the city, that was all — and finding nothing in her memory, Sansa said, aware of the quiet around them, "I fear you are mistaken, ser. We have not spoken since — since the Kingsroad, I think, or even my father's hall — I was only a little girl, you could not have been expected to — "

Before she could stammer too stupidly for too long, Ser Jaime answered — not interrupting, exactly; he was almost gentle. "Peace, my lady. I suppose that did sound like a trick question. Let me start, then, by saying that you are not the first Lady Stark the wench here has heard me address."

Sansa would not have guessed it was possible, but the Lady Tarth's face went even redder. Or, at least, her ears did; she did not look up from where she knelt, but she turned her head, a little, towards Ser Jaime. "My name," she hissed, "is — "

"Brienne," Ser Jaime finished for her, but there was something in his eyes as he looked at the lady, something almost affectionate — if he were any other man, if he were not a Lannister, she might have called it something loving. "Thank the gods. I thought perhaps you'd lost your tongue somewhere on the way over here from the Keep. I'm pleased you haven't, for some urchin would doubtless have snatched it up and had it in a bowl o' brown by now."

Laughter rang throughout the gardens again, but Brienne seemed to shrink a little further into herself. _The poor creature,_ Sansa realized. _She's so used to being laughed at, she doesn't realize people can laugh at anything else._ "Please," Sansa said, a little desperately, "my lady, please rise."

"Please do," Prince Oberyn said, and Sansa realized that _he_ had not been laughing with the rest of them, and loved him a little more than she already did for it. "I have heard tales of the Maid of Tarth. If half of them are true, any man would be proud to have her for a daughter."

The lady flushed again, but she chanced a look up once more, and even seemed to smile, a little, tentatively, as she got slowly to her feet. "You are very kind, my prince," she said, a little above a whisper. She glanced at Ser Jaime, who nodded, and she swallowed, cleared her throat, looked a little above Sansa's head, trying to look as if she were looking _at_ Sansa without actually having to _look_ at her. Sansa knew the trick all too well, after all her time in the Red Keep, and even if she _had_ come at the Kingslayer's side, she found her heart swelling with pity for the poor woman.

"Would it be easier to speak someplace more private?" she whispered, in a voice that would not carry beyond herself, Lady Tarth, and Prince Oberyn.

The woman met her eyes for true then, and her lips curved, just for a moment, into something that might have been a smile. "That's all right, my lady," she said, ducking her head again. "You're very kind," she mumbled again, and then she took a deep breath and looked up at last.

Something had steeled her, it seemed, for her voice hardly shook at all as she said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Lady Stark — that is, your lady mother, Lady Catelyn Stark — she took me into her service at Bitterbridge, after the death of — of _King_ Renly," and something about the way she emphasized the title made Sansa's heart ache, just a little. _Why, she's only a little older than I am,_ she realized suddenly; the woman was so tall, and her armor made her look even larger, that it was easy to miss. "Lady Stark — Lady Catelyn, I mean — she was the only one who knew — the only one who did not — " Her words, which had all spilled out in a rush, came to a halt, and her lips moved for a few moments, and then, at last, she said, "She was a good and gracious lady," and ducked her head once more.

"She was a tra — " Even now, she could not quite help it. _My mother was a traitor, as was my brother,_ the old protest, which she had carried like a talisman, only changing "is" for "was" in the last few months.

Prince Oberyn's hand on her arm tightened again, and she was only barely aware of him drawing a little closer to her, of his warmth at her side growing just a little bit warmer. "She was a _truly_ great woman," he said, as smoothly as if it had been what Sansa meant to say the whole time. "I never met her myself, alas, but I have heard many things about her, and if she was half so gracious and good as the daughter with whom I am acquainted, she must have been a treasure. And," he added, with a mischievous little glance at her, "if she was even a third as pretty as our Lady Stark, she must have been a great beauty indeed."

Even as Sansa's vision glittered behind a veil of tears, she felt herself laughing along with the rest of the crowd, felt herself blushing as Tyrion cried "Hear, hear," and all the lords and ladies echoed him. _She was_ , she thought suddenly, fiercely, the wolf in her heart wide awake, _she was the most beautiful lady in the whole world._

She said nothing, could not say anything, but she did not need to, for the new lady spoke instead. "She was, my prince. She was very lovely. But — but she once told me — it was near our parting, the very night — the last time I ever spoke with her — she said that even when Lady Sansa — that is, Lady Stark — even when she was a little girl, milady could see that she would be more beautiful still."

It was the most she had said so far, and at the end of it, she chanced another look directly at Sansa, and even, this time, a shy, sad — so very sad — smile. Or perhaps Sansa only imagined it was sad, because her own eyes were so full of tears once more. "I — " she started, but could not find any words. Even if she had been able to think of something to say, she feared she would only have started bawling if she tried to speak. She wanted to hug her mother, to preen and thank her prettily, only Mother was dead, she was _dead_ , Sansa could never hug her again — and what could it possibly be safe for her to say? He was the queen's _brother_ —

A gentle squeeze of her arm brought her out of her circling thoughts, and Prince Oberyn murmured, "My lady — "

"It's all right," she whispered, and if that was not entirely true, at least it wasn't completely a lie, either. As she spoke again, louder, her voice barely shook at all. "I thank you for sharing my mother's words with me, my lady. Even now, they are a comfort for me."

"I lost my mother when I was very young, my lady," the woman said. Her pretty eyes were very sad, but her face was no longer quite so red. "Your lady mother was very good to me. I think — I _hope_ —- it would make her glad to know that I was able to offer you some comfort."

Sansa did not have to try to answer that, fortunately, for Ser Jaime cleared his throat. "We do bring more than words, my lady."

He bent, opening the chest — and Sansa gasped. Even Prince Oberyn made a small sound, deep in his throat, which she thought might be surprise. It had taken four men to carry it in, and now she saw why, for it was filled with gold — mostly gold, though some jewels, as well, and she caught the scents of spices and perfumes...she looked over at Tyrion, for perhaps he might understand, but he was gaping along with the rest of the company.

After a moment, or three, she realized that no one had spoken — that it was on _her_ to speak. "I — forgive me, Ser Jaime, but I do not understand."

"Ten thousand dragons," Ser Jaime said. He did not smile, but he seemed to hold himself a little taller; something in his eye seemed a little brighter (though perhaps it was only the light). "One thousand each, or else the difference in gems and spices, from Houses Greenfield, Clegane, Trant, Blount, Moore, and Oakheart, for the men of the Kingsguard who used you so ill. The rest from House Lannister, for if those men thought their behavior fitting for those who wear the white cloak, the failure must ultimately be with their Lord Commander."

Mercifully, she did not have to answer this, for after a moment, he went on. "That is only part of my business with you, Lady Stark. The other part concerns not just mine own honor, but that of the lady." He nodded at Lady Brienne, who flinched, just a little. "Peace," he murmured, so low that only the four of them could hear him — Brienne, Prince Oberyn, and Sansa. And in truth, if she still believed in stories, she would have guessed from the look in his eyes that only Brienne was _meant_ to hear him. "You see," he said, his voice clear and loud again, "your lady mother tasked Brienne here with a solemn duty, one that she could entrust to no other — not least, I expect, because no other could possibly have been so damned mulishly stubborn as to be relied upon to fulfill it. There was to be a trade. Myself, back here with _my_ family, and you, back with yours."

"I — forgive me, ser," she said, and hated herself for how she had only just said that same thing. The Hound had said once that she was like a trained bird, and he was not wrong. "There was no talk of this at court," she said, instead.

"There wouldn't have been," the Kingslayer said. "You were right, earlier, when you said that your mother was a traitor — but not, perhaps, in the sense that you have become accustomed to hearing of her. It was the other Northmen, in the end, who saw her as a traitor."

Lady Brienne still looked a little ill, but she interrupted, and her face seemed red, now, with feeling rather than fear. "She was never a traitor," she said, hotly. " _Never._ It was after — after we heard of — " She trailed off, and looked down at the bundle she carried once more. "It was after we learned of what Theon Greyjoy had done, my lady. To your brothers. Lady Stark — that is, the Lady Stark your mother — she made the trade without your brother's knowledge or consent — but it was no treason."

Sansa did not have to answer this, at least, for Prince Oberyn spoke instead, even as he patted her hand with his, moved just a little closer to her, so that his warmth was all the more certain beside her. "This is all well and good," he said, "and to be sure, Ser Jaime, you do a greater credit to your cloak than any man who wears it has in some time with this." He nudged the chest with his foot. "But I must ask — to what end do you bring the Lady Brienne here today? Riverrun, I understand, is now besieged by Lannisters, and Winterfell is held by the Boltons. I do not think Lady Stark's husband has any particular desire to see either of those places, and as she is under the protection of House Martell besides, I must confess that I am not fond of the idea of sending her to any of them."

It was Brienne who answered, and though her voice was a little thin, it was still clear. "No, my prince," she said. "I understand the lady is bound for Dorne. It is only — my lady," she said, and Sansa loved her a little for it, for the fact that she looked at _her_ , spoke to _her_ , as she said it, and not at Prince Oberyn, however dear he was to her. "I served your lady mother. I swore to her that I would deliver her daughters back to her. I cannot fulfill that oath...but I can serve you. I can offer you my sword and shield."

"And strong arms they are, I have heard, that bear these things," Prince Oberyn said lightly. "Though that armor would never do in Dorne, my lady. You would bake inside of it before you could get very far in any battle."

"I grant, Lady Stark," Ser Jaime said, "it seems you've swords — and spears — aplenty about you already, but if you'd like one more — well, you'll have the sword, regardless, but if you'd like someone to wield it, you'll find no one more loyal, and few stronger, now that the Mountain is dead, or more skilled, now that I'm short a sword hand. As to the sword, that's the other reason I've come with the lady."

He spoke lightly, as ever, but there was something hard in his voice, and when he looked at Sansa, his eyes seemed rich and sad and even greener than the Queen's. "I meant to send something back with you when I reached the city, Lady Stark, but aside from the obvious difficulty of _where_ to send it now, I fear that it has been ill used by my father. My lady," he said, but he was looking at the woman now, nodding, and she stepped a little closer, and held out the bundle she carried.

"I don't — " _understand_ , she meant to say, except Brienne knelt and unwrapped the bundle and she saw the pommel, the lion's head with its ruby eyes, and her heart seemed to freeze in her chest. She reached out, but stopped before her fingers brushed it, afraid that it might vanish, afraid that _this_ was what it had all been building towards: some terrible trap that would spring now, in this moment.

There were two swords, in fact, she saw; the second lay underneath it. Sansa knew little of swords, it was true, but she thought that perhaps — it was no ordinary steel, it was lighter and thinner than any other sword, and though there were red ripples in it, they were chased by smoky blue-black that she knew, that she _remembered_ — between the two of them, perhaps, once, the two together had been...

"Valyrian steel," Prince Oberyn said, his voice soft. "If I'm not mistaken, the blade that was gifted to King Joffrey at his wedding breakfast. And the other..."

"Its brother. The same steel."

"Quite a gift, ser," the prince said.

"There, I'm afraid, you're wrong," Ser Jaime said, and though his voice was still light, he seemed to hold himself a little taller. "'Tis no gift at all. It was not my father's to give to Joff to begin with. Lord Eddard Stark's greatsword, Ice, was seized along with all the rest of his property. I had intended to send it back along with the Lady Sansa and her sister, but my father _does_ seem to know how to complicate things, doesn't he? I hope it is some comfort, at least, that he always wanted Valyrian steel," he added. "This will vex him to no end."

"I fear the lady is far too good-hearted to care about such things," Lord Tyrion said, "but I confess, it certainly pleases _me_ to remember that."

Everyone laughed, including, even, Ser Jaime. By the time it was quiet again, Sansa had found some sort of words. "I thank you, ser," she said. She reached out, briefly, but could not quite bring herself to touch the steel yet. Instead, she folded the cloth back over the blades, covering them carefully, and took the bundle from Lady Brienne. It was so light. Valyrian steel was lighter than other steel, she remembered. The pommels were the heaviest parts. Sansa felt as if she held a child in her arms, something precious and full of promise. "You have done a great service to — to me." _To my house_ , she had first thought to say, but this was safer. "As have you, my lady," she added, and gave the woman the best smile she could manage. "I — if you would enter Prince Oberyn's service — "

"No," she said quickly, and then, as if she only now realized what she had said, her face went pale. "Forgive me, my prince," she said, bowing her head to him. "But — I swore myself to Lady Catelyn. I serve House Stark."

"Lady Sansa is already beloved by House Martell," Prince Oberyn said, and though his tone was light, Sansa heard something deeper beneath it. "I doubt that anyone here would be sorry to know she has in her service someone to whom oaths still have meaning. I certainly would not. By all means, Sansa, if she would serve you, I see no reason why she should not. Though as I say, once we reach Sunspear, the master at arms will have to see to some new armor. And if Lady Sansa will spare you, my lady, I think my daughter will be eager to test herself against you. We mostly use spears in Dorne, as you can see — " he indicated one of the guards — "and I am forever telling her that she must get more practice against an opponent with a sword."

Lady Brienne looked a little stunned at that, as if she had expected more of an argument. It seemed to take a moment for her to realize what else the prince had spoken of. "Your daughter, my prince?" she asked, and then reddened slightly. "That is — I should be glad to, if my lady will have me, and she thinks it fitting."

 _That was well done,_ Sansa realized, noting that something about the lady seemed to have softened a little. _The poor thing is so used to being laughed at, and he has made her feel less strange._ "Of course," she said. She could not quite match Prince Oberyn's ease, of course, but she was able to manage something like it as she said, "a knight who does not keep his — or her," she corrected — "skills sharp is not much use, is she?"

"Then — then you will have me, my lady?"

Sansa tried to offer her a reassuring smile. She could not put people at ease the way Prince Oberyn could, but she thought that the lady _seemed_ relieved — there was the briefest flash of something that might have been a smile of her own. Her eyes shone as she looked up at Sansa — _why, she is almost pretty now,_ Sansa thought, as she bowed her head once more. "Yes," she said. "If that is your wish, my lady."

"It is," she said quickly.

She reached for her own blade, but something struck Sansa, and she said, "Wait." She held out the bundle instead.

Brienne looked at it for a moment, and then turned her gaze back up to Sansa. The look in her eyes was strange — they were so big, and her expression was — it was nearly sweet, nearly a child's. Sansa saw the longing in her eyes, but she shook her head. "My lady, I am no Stark, I could not presume to — "

"My brothers are dead," Sansa said. "And my father too, and, they say, my sister. There is no one else to carry them, either of them. I hope that you will never have to use it, but — but I would not have them lie forgotten in some vault."

Carefully, as though she expected the blades to vanish, or Sansa to snatch them back and laugh at her, Brienne reached for one of them. She laid it, so carefully, at Sansa's feet, and bowed her head. "If you will have me, my lady, then I am yours. I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and if need be, I will give my life for yours. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

"And — " _Remember Father._ She had seen him take men's oaths before, but still, it took her a moment to find the words. Or perhaps they weren't lost — perhaps they were only difficult. She almost heard Father speaking, felt as if he were watching her, the way he might sometimes, when she wanted to show off the new song she had learned, with that little half-smile on his sad face. "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, and I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. This I swear, by the old gods and the new." As Brienne stood, Sansa took her hands in her own, and tugged, just a little, so that the lady leaned down, close to her.

"You mustn't weep," she whispered, pressing a kiss against her cheek. "Or else I shall as well."

Brienne gave a soft sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, but she was smiling shyly as she blinked at Sansa. "I — I will try, my lady."


End file.
